Roses in December
by ckofshadows
Summary: In a cozy coffee shop in a small town, a boy with beautiful blue eyes sits at the same table every day, as if he's waiting for something, or someone. Blaine feels strangely compelled to sit down and talk with him… and discovers the unimaginable.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: **Cathedral Carver** is a rock goddess for looking at this story for me._

_It's not AU. Please give it a try, because I really like it. It may be a one-shot, or there may be more to come. Haven't decided yet._

_P.S. I wrote this instead of reading a 300-page book by tomorrow. Oops._

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><p>Over the past several months, I've been on a mission to find the perfect coffee shop. I don't even know what I'm looking for, really, but I'm positive that I'll know it when I see it. I've been to every Starbucks within 50 miles of Westerville, and while their flavor shots are intriguing – particularly around the holidays – they're a bit too commercial for my tastes. So I've been hitting the smaller places lately.<p>

But The Daily Grind tends to scorch their drip coffee, and Cuppa Joe's uses styrofoam cups, and Brew-Ha-Ha has uncomfortable chairs. Nothing is quite right, and every day, I cross another coffee shop off the master list.

It's a cold morning in early December when I pull up outside a place called the Lima Bean. It doesn't look like much from the outside, but if my experience as an Anderson has taught me anything, it's that appearances can be deceiving. I park in the side lot and hurry toward the shop, buttoning my overcoat against the biting wind.

The place is nearly empty inside. It's warm, and smells like ground coffee beans and steamed milk, and I pause inside the door as realization dawns.

This is it.

This is the perfect coffee shop.

There's a sense of real, palpable relief, like I can finally stop searching. Like I've been looking for it forever. I step up to the counter, still trying to figure out exactly what it is about this place that makes it different. The barista looks at me expectantly.

"Medium drip, please," I say to her. I don't have any cash on me, so I swipe my credit card and enter my pin number before moving to the end of the counter. Soon enough, a fresh cup of coffee is pressed into my hand, labeled with a scribbled _Blaine_. She must have seen my name on my credit card, I guess. After adding cream and sweetener to the coffee, I turn and scan the room, looking for a good seat.

There's a lot of empty tables near the windows – which means good light for reading – but my eyes are drawn to a small table in the middle, where a guy my age is seated, watching me. An _attractive gu_y my age. He's definitely watching, too – not just looking – and there's something about him that pulls me closer.

I walk up, smiling at him with more confidence than I'm feeling. "Hi."

His eyes are wide. They're a shade of blue that I can't quite place, but would like to. "Hi," he replies, his voice high and light.

"My name's Blaine."

His smile fades a little. I don't blame him; it's a dumb name. "I'm Kurt."

"Kurt. May I join you?"

"Um... sure." I slip into the seat across from him, stowing my laptop case under the table.

I'm home-schooled, which for some kids means sitting at the kitchen table getting algebra lessons from their mom, but for me means monthly assignments and research papers that I complete on my own timeline. In September, I started bringing my computer to a different coffee shop every day. It was a way to escape the oppressive silence of my house, and having access to a steady stream of coffee and fresh biscotti never hurt, either.

This is the first time that I've ever sought out company, though. Maybe it's the thrill of finding the perfect coffee shop that gives me the nerve.

"Come here often?" Kurt asks, one delicate eyebrow raised. He's so pretty it almost hurts to look at him.

I smirk in response, taking a sip of coffee. "First time," I say after swallowing, then tip my cup slightly. "Won't be the last, though. This coffee is really good."

He nods, taking a pull from his own cup. We sit in silence, not quite looking at each other but not quite looking away from each other, either. "So," he says at last. "What brings you to Lima?"

"What makes you assume I'm not from Lima?" I parry back. He just looks at me inscrutably, and finally I have to laugh. "Okay, you got me, I'm not from Lima. I live in Westerville. What gave me away?"

"Sixth sense," he says drily. "And you didn't answer my question."

"I like to do my homework in coffee shops."

"You're in high school?"

"Yeah, I'm a senior."

He glances over at the wall clock. "It's ten o'clock, on a Tuesday morning. Why aren't you in class?"

"I'm home-schooled."

This seems to throw him. "Oh. I didn't realize."

"We're not all social misfits, I swear."

"I figured you were at Dalton or something."

"No, but you're not far off-base. I did go to Dalton for a couple of years," I admit.

"Huh." He reaches for his coffee again, and I notice that his hands are shaking. Is he nervous?

"What about you?" I ask, cocking my head. "Shouldn't you be in class?"

"Nope. Graduated last year."

"So you're my age, then." Seeing him pause, I supply, "I should've graduated last spring, like you, but I had to take several months off from school. Ended up missing too much time to make up the work. So I'm repeating my senior year."

"Ah."

I wait for the inevitable questions, but to my surprise, none come. We settle back into silence. I look around the coffee shop, trying again to figure out what makes it so perfect, but my mind just keeps coming back to my new friend. My new friend with the lovely face, and the inscrutable expressions, and the swooping hair. I wonder what it would feel like between my fingers as we kissed, pushed up against his Navigator, hands roaming and curfew approaching–

"Sorry to interrupt." I look up to see the barista standing beside us, rocking back and forth slightly on the balls of her feet. "We just had a new batch of biscotti come out of the oven, and I wanted to bring you two some." She sets down a heaping plate of biscotti, and my mouth instantly starts to water.

Kurt's almost glaring at her. "Thank you, _Bethany_."

"You're welcome, _Kurt_," she says back, smiling widely. I start to pull out my wallet, but she waves it away. "Don't be silly, Blaine. It's on the house."

I thank her politely, adding, "You're very good with names."

Her eyes flicker back to Kurt, and her smile dims. "Yes. Well. I should get back to work. Enjoy."

She disappears again, and I nudge the plate toward Kurt, motioning for him to take a piece. He does, his face still tight from the exchange with Bethany. I take one too and, no surprise, it's just about the best biscotti I've ever had. I take the lid off my coffee cup and dunk the biscotti into the coffee little by little, chewing on the ends of it. When I look up, Kurt is watching me, his eyes terribly sad.

"What?"

"Nothing."

I can tell that he's staring at my hairline, and I raise my fingers to the spot, feeling a little self-conscious all of a sudden. "It's a scar," I tell him plainly, and he nods in response. "It doesn't hurt," I assure him.

"That's good."

The silence stretches out for miles between us, until I finally speak. "It happened a few months into my senior year," I tell him. "I'd left Dalton and transferred to a public school, and I guess there were some homophobes there with violent tendencies. I'm... I mean... I'm gay." He doesn't look perturbed or even surprised by that information, so I push onward. "Apparently a group of them cornered me and beat me pretty severely."

"Apparently?"

"I don't remember any of it." I trace one finger along the dark raised scar, from my hairline to halfway back my scalp. "The head trauma was the worst of it; one of them was carrying a crowbar. I was in a coma for a really long time."

He swallows. "And when you came out of it?"

"It was pretty rough. I have something called retrograde amnesia. I lost over a year's worth of memories."

This doesn't seem to faze him, which is nice. Most people get freaked out when I tell them. "And none of it ever came back?"

"Not yet, no."

He sighs. "Were there any other lasting effects from that night?"

"I... How'd you know it happened at night?"

"I just figured. Those sorts of attacks tend to happen when it's dark out."

"Oh. Well, no, the amnesia was about it. Sometimes I get migraine headaches, but not so often anymore. And..." I break off, embarrassed. Kurt just looks at me expectantly. "And I have... spells, sometimes."

"Spells," he repeats.

"They're kind of like hallucinations, I guess," I admit, hoping that he won't think I'm crazy. "Like the other day, my parents and I went shopping at the Gap, and I had this bizarre daydream where I was chasing a Gap employee around the store and serenading him with a really inappropriately sexual song. Dancing around and jumping on tables and stuff." I laugh weakly. "Weird, right? No one would ever do that."

"I don't know, they might if he was a junior manager," he deadpans. "Anyway, how do you know it wasn't a memory?"

I can't tell if he's making fun of me. "You think I actually went into somebody's workplace and busted a groove?"

"It's possible."

"Nah. Like I said, it happens sometimes. The spells, I mean. My dad says that it's my brain's way of trying to fill in the memory gaps with nonsense." At the mention of my dad, Kurt stiffens visibly. Maybe he has a bad relationship with his own father. I try to picture what his dad would look like – tall and thin like him, maybe, with big eyes – but I just keep coming up with an image of a bald guy wearing coveralls and a baseball cap. I almost tell him that, but I wouldn't want to accidentally offend him. "So are you in college?" I ask.

"Me? No." He shoves a big piece of biscotti into his mouth, and I get the distinct impression that it's because he doesn't want to talk about college. As he chews, he rubs the side of his neck unconsciously. My eyes follow the motion of his fingers under the thin chain of his necklace, and – _oh_.

"Oh, god. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, I'll go to college at some point–"

"No," I interrupt. "I'm sorry for talking about my attack." I gesture to his neck, where his fingers are still tracing over a scar. Now that I know to look, there are others, too. One next to his right eye, and a large one along his collarbone. "You haven't had an easy time of it either, have you?"

He just looks at me, stricken. His eyes are slowly becoming glassy with tears, so I look down at my coffee politely until he can compose himself. When I look back up, though, the tears have spilled over, and he's shaking his head over and over. "I can't do this," he whispers.

"Do what? Live in Ohio? I know, it's hard, but you won't be here forever. I'm planning on leaving at the first opportunity myself. You just have to have courage–"

There's a sharp squeak as he shoves his chair back, and then he's standing, pulling on his coat. "I have to go."

"Was it something I said?" God, I hope not. There's something about Kurt that makes me want to curl up beside him and lose myself in him. Just cuddle all day long, watching _The Sound of Music_ and singing along in two-part harmony and – _shit. _From the look on Kurt's face, I know I just had another one of my spells.

"What did you see?" he asks.

I stare at him, lost for words. "Please don't go."

He wipes his tear-streaked cheeks with the back of his sleeve, and glances over at the barista, who's watching us with a pitying expression. "I have to."

"Why? Just stay a bit longer. I promise I won't say anything stupid this time."

"It's not you, it's... I mean, your dad..."

"My dad?"

He looks away for a moment, and when he looks back, it's with an expression of longing so acute, it makes my breath catch in my throat. "I need to go now. But... I'll come back. Tomorrow morning. Around ten o'clock. If you–"

"I'll be here waiting."

I can't tell if it's relief or trepidation in his eyes as he nods, and then turns and leaves. I sit alone for a minute, trying to make sense of what just happened. Bethany is still watching me. So I stand up, slinging my laptop case over my shoulder and picking up the coffee and biscotti. There's a window seat near the back that's a bit more private.

Once I'm settled into the new seat, Bethany gets back to work, chatting with a new customer. I turn to gaze out the window, and that's when I see him. Kurt is sitting in the driver's seat of a parked Navigator, not thirty feet away. His forehead is resting against the steering wheel, his face covered by his hands. I can't be sure, but judging by the shaking of his shoulders, it looks like he's sobbing.

Unsettled, I sip at my lukewarm coffee. After a few minutes, he straightens up, starts the engine, and pulls out of the parking lot. I take out my laptop, ready to work on my essay on the Holy Roman Empire, when it suddenly hits me.

How did I know he drives a Navigator?


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I tried to write a new chapter of Another Story. Really, I did. But this came out instead. Sorry :( A million thanks to **Cathedral Carver **for her beta assistance. xoxoxo_

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><p>I hang around the Lima Bean for several hours, on the off chance that the mysterious Kurt might return today. He doesn't, though, and Bethany's curious glances have graduated to full-on staring sessions, so I finally pack up my things and go.<p>

It's hard to drive long distances when you're prone to having spells. I keep my eyes resolutely on the road and sing along with the songs on the radio to distract myself. There are a lot of songs that I still don't know, though – catching up on a missed year extends well beyond what anyone realizes.

Once I'm home, once I'm lying on my bed with my eyes closed, I finally let my mind wander and settle on Kurt. I remember the bewitching shade of his eyes – blue with some green and gray mixed in – and how soft his lips looked. I remember the soft lilt of his voice, and the smooth lines of his coat, and the way his eyes lit up when I told him I loved him–

My eyes fly open, and I sit up blearily. The clock says it's six-thirty in the evening. I must have fallen asleep.

Blinking away the remnants of the dream, I make my way downstairs, following the faint clanking of pots and pans and the aroma of garlic and chicken. My mother is in there, wearing a cotton dress and pearls, looking every bit the 50s American housewife. Except for the Filipina part, of course.

"Hi, Mom."

She looks up and smiles at me, pressing a dry kiss to my cheek. "Daddy will be home from work soon. Set the table for me?"

I haven't called my father Daddy since I was four, but Mom persists in referring to him that way. "Sure. Linen napkins?"

"Of course."

By the time Dad walks in the door, briefcase in hand, dinner is ready. Mom serves them both wine, and hands my dad the carving knife. He carves the meat, and we clap our hands politely before serving ourselves dinner.

When I'm buttering the inside of my roll, my dad starts telling my mom about a particularly difficult patient at work. The attention is off me, so I allow my mind to wander again. I wonder how I knew this morning that Kurt drives a Navigator. I wonder how I know what the seats feel like on my bare skin as we–

"And how was _your_ day today, dear?"

I blink rapidly, trying to chase away the mental image of Kurt and me making out feverishly in the back seat of his car. It's a good image – a _great_ image – but from the way my parents are both peering at me over the dining room table, I have the paranoid thought that they know what I was imagining. "My day? It was fine."

"How's the paper on the Holy Roman Empire coming?" Dad asks.

"Fine. I finished the research part and wrote the outline."

"I called the house phone around eleven," Mom says, taking a sip of wine. "There was no answer."

"I went to a coffee shop to study. Did you try my cell phone?"

She huffs out a laugh. "No, right after I called you the florist delivered carnations to the luncheon. _Carnations, _can you imagine? So I had to call around and see who could arrange thirty Calla lily centerpieces in half an hour. Quite a day."

Dad smiles fondly at her. "You're cool as a cucumber under pressure, Cece."

"You really are," I chime in. "I don't think I've ever seen you get ruffled by anything."

I expect her usual preening acceptance of my compliment, but instead, there's a strange tension that settles around my parents. Mom keeps her eyes down as she spears baby carrots with her fork, and Dad clears his throat a few times. For several minutes, the only sounds are of clinking silverware.

I push my food around on my plate. "I met someone today," I venture. "At the coffee shop." There's a loud clatter as my father drops his fork on his plate. Mom and I look at him, and he takes a deep breath, picking the fork back up with a blank expression.

"Oh?"

I can't even say why it is that I don't tell them about Kurt in that moment. There's something about the tone in my dad's voice - almost like a warning - that makes me hesitate. "Yeah, a girl named Bethany. We chatted for a while; she seems nice."

Mom's eyebrows shoot up. "Is this a potential love interest, sweetie?"

"What? No... I'm gay, Mom, remember?"

"I'm just asking," she sighs. "After everything that happened with Rachel..."

"Who's Rachel?"

Mom looks at Dad, who looks at me. "Rachel, from the Bible," he says quickly. "Don't you remember learning about her in Sunday School?"

No, actually. But admitting that I don't would be an invitation for them to make me go to church again, so I just nod. "Right. Of course, I understand the connection."

I don't understand the connection.

"Well, if you ever feel romantically toward Bethany, that's fine too," Mom says sweetly. "You're too young to box yourself into any labels."

"It's not even like you've ever had a boyfriend," Dad reminds me.

"Right," I agree. Even though I know he's wrong.

After dinner, after I've cleared the dishes from the table and stacked them in the dishwasher, I head up to my bedroom. Four steps into the room I stop, turning around slowly and trying for the hundredth time to figure out what is missing.

Someone went through my room, while I was in the hospital. Someone took things, changed things. To the unsuspecting observer, it might look like any other teenage boy's bedroom. I've got a dresser filled with clothes... a bookshelf filled with my favorite novels and CDs... even a desktop computer with internet access.

But there are drawers with clearly missing clothing. Gaps in the bookshelf where I think yearbooks would go. The computer – like my laptop – was brand new when I came home from the hospital, so there were no photo or video files on it. My old email address had been terminated.

There are other signs, too. I have a huge bulletin board hanging over my desk, and while there are a few items tacked to it – like last year's Buckeyes roster and game schedule, an autographed poster from the first time I saw Avenue Q, a couple of ticket stubs from a concert I saw in eighth grade – it's mostly empty. Which you could attribute to my being dull, I guess, except that there are hundreds of little pushpin holes, all over the board.

There was a life up there, and somebody took it down.

"Blaine?" I look up to see my father in the doorway. "Is everything all right?"

I must seem ridiculous to him, standing stock-still in the middle of my room. "Of course, why?"

"You had a few spells at dinner," he admits, and I can feel my cheeks color.

"Oh. Sorry."

"Don't apologize, kiddo. I just wonder if you'd like for me to give you some more lithium–"

"Dad. We've been over this a dozen times," I remind him firmly. "No more lithium. I don't like how it makes me feel. Besides, I'm sure you could get in trouble for bringing me all those samples home from your office."

He just waves his hand dismissively. "You'd be horrified if you knew how many samples the drug companies send us. Why, I could save my patients the trouble of getting prescriptions written, and just give them samples for as long as they needed the medication."

"Why don't you, then?"

His eyes narrow a little, and he ignores the question. "What are you reading?" he asks, gesturing over to my bedside table, where a paperback book is lying open on the surface.

"__A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man__. Have you read it?"

"Not since I was your age." He regards me curiously, opening his mouth and then closing it abruptly. "Well, have a good night."

"You too."

"I love you."

"Love you too."

He waves a little before shutting my bedroom door.

This is new. All of it; meals together as a family, little chats after dinner, nightly professions of love. Before the attack, I'd see my dad a couple of times a week. Mom was usually off at some charity event's planning meeting until the late evening, and so I spent most of my time alone. Going to Dalton had been an adjustment – there was constant noise and activity. At first it had been overwhelming. After a few weeks, though, I couldn't get enough of it.

That's another thing. I was at Dalton from the spring of freshman year through the beginning of senior year. Shouldn't I have had some friends when I left? Why didn't they ever come to visit me when I was in the hospital, or even when I came home? I was there for over two years. I'd been friendly with Wes and David sophomore year. Could I really have burned my bridges when I left as a senior?

For that matter, shouldn't I have a junior yearbook? The Dalton Academy Annuals from freshman and sophomore year are on my bottom shelf, but there's a space next to them. Why wouldn't I have gotten one the following year? And if I did get one... where did it go?

I glance back at the closed door. My parents have always been good about letting me have my space. When my door is closed, they don't bother me unless it's an emergency. So I head over to my bed, reaching behind the headboard and pulling out a short, folded step-ladder. There's a high shelf in my closet, too high to be very useful. I put old board games and my broken keyboard up there to fill the space, because they're easy to pull down. I do so now, stacking them to the side of the closet, and set up the step-ladder, climbing carefully until I can ease myself up onto the shelf.

I started doing this as a kid, when I'd heard my dad telling my mom I'd be safer in the closet, and misunderstood him. But even once I realized what he'd meant, I kept coming up here. There's something about a high, tight space that makes me feel safe. I used to bring a blanket up and read books by flashlight.

Now, I just gaze at my roses.

There are four of them in total. Pinned right by the ceiling on the little lip above the closet doors. Three are red, one is white. They have little bows on them, and clearly came from some sort of corsage or boutonnière. They're only in view when I'm up on my shelf. Whoever wiped my room clean missed them completely.

I rest my cheek against the thick wood of the shelf and stare at the roses.

Somebody loved me once.

It's the only feasible explanation. If they'd been congratulatory flowers after a Warblers performance, or corsages that I wore while escorting female friends to their proms, I wouldn't have pinned them up here, out of sight. This is my secret place, my safe place, and if they're up here, it means I was hiding them from my parents. And as far as I can figure, that implies only one thing: I used to have a boyfriend. He's clearly not in the picture anymore; the attack was nearly a year ago, and surely he would have visited me in the hospital if we'd still been together.

Even still, somebody loved me once. Somebody loved me enough to buy me flowers, and I loved him enough to pin them up to grow dry and brittle in my secret spot.

I breathe slowly, listening to the stillness. For months, I've come up here and stared at the roses, as though they could tell me everything I've forgotten. I've tried imagining the person who gave them to me, but he was always faceless, shapeless. I let my mind drift now, knowing a spell is coming but accepting it anyway. It's so warm in my room, so warm in my closet, and Kurt and I are slow-dancing across my shelf as I fall asleep smiling.


	3. Chapter 3

I'm awake by dawn, giddy with anticipation, grinning up at the ceiling of my closet. I don't even know if this is a date, but I pick out my clothes carefully just in case it is. I'm torn as to whether to look polished or casual. Kurt was wearing skinny jeans yesterday, so I pull a similar pair out of a drawer. Then I reach for a charcoal gray button-up shirt, Burberry-patterned suspenders, and bright red socks for whimsy. I shower and style my hair, shave and dress.

How early is too early to arrive?

My GPS estimates that I'll get to Lima shortly before nine o'clock if I leave now, and although that's over an hour early, I figure it can't hurt to allow for traffic delays. I grab my laptop case and a few notebooks so my mom will think I'm heading out to study. It makes me feel uneasy to lie to my parents – I'm not in the habit – but I know I didn't misinterpret my dad's tone of voice last night. If I have to have a secret, something tells me that Kurt is worth it.

It's snowing lightly when I reach Lima around eight forty-five. Everything looks so clean and fresh with a dusting of snow on it, and I find myself humming Christmas carols under my breath as I park in the little lot outside the Lima Bean. I head inside, shaking snow off my scarf, and–

And he's here already.

Kurt is sitting at the same table as yesterday, dreamy as ever. He's sipping from a coffee cup and flipping through the latest issue of _Vogue_, allowing me the chance to study him stealthily. He's dressed to the nines in a gorgeous McQueen jacket, silk scarf and slim pinstriped pants. I'm half-considering driving back to Westerville to change into something dressier and come back, but then he looks up and sees me. Looks me up and down and smiles so appreciatively that I might just have to wear this outfit every day for the rest of eternity.

I head over to the table, taking off my scarf and draping my peacoat over the back of a chair. "Good morning."

"Morning," he says a little breathlessly. "You remembered."

"As if I could ever forget you," I return, flirting shamelessly.

His face falls, and oh shit, it's not a date at all. I misread the situation completely. He might not even be gay. He's just a straight guy with a high voice and great style, and I totally profiled him and now I'm sexually harassing him in the middle of a coffee shop–

"Relax, Blaine," Kurt says, clearing his throat. "It's a date; it's _supposed _to be awkward."

It's a date. The words are echoing in my mind – _it's a date it's a date it's a date – _and I completely miss what he's saying next. Trying unsuccessfully to tamp down my glee, I drop into the chair across from him and offer a toothy smile. "Sorry, what?"

He looks amused. "I was asking if you wanted coffee or something."

"Oh! Yes. Coffee." And I'm back on my feet, heading halfway over to the front counter before spinning back towards him and adding, "Do you want anything?"

He gestures to his cup of coffee. "I'm all set, thanks."

"'Kay." There's a different barista today, which I'm sort of relieved about – that Bethany girl was a little weird. I order a medium drip coffee and a plate of biscotti, and when I get back to the table, Kurt's holding a shaker of cinnamon. "What's that?"

"Cinnamon."

"Well, I can _see _that." I roll my eyes, secretly enjoying that his dimple is showing. Adorable. "What's it for?"

"Try it in your coffee."

"No thanks, I'm kind of a purist."

"Trust me," he says, and for some reason, the moment feels heavy. Like he's asking more of me than I know.

Finally I take the shaker, pulling the lid off my cup and sprinkling a dash of cinnamon into the coffee. "That enough?"

"A little more."

I give a couple more shakes before he nods. When I take a tentative sip, it's–

"Oh my god," I moan. "Oh my_ god_."

"Right?"

"That's fantastic."

"I thought you might like it."

We grin at each other dopily. "So," I say, as he takes a sip of his own coffee. "I was hoping you'd help me with something."

"Oh?"

"I have a year's worth of lost memories, and I just have to ask..." I gesture toward his copy of _Vogue_. "What fashion trends did I miss?"

His eyes light up. "Well!" he exclaims, and then goes into a long tirade about how _Maxis just shouldn't be stylish, ever _and _The world was not clamoring for scrunchies to make a comeback _and _How long till kilts are trendy again, because I think we've all waited long enough. _I just nod obligingly and smile when it seems expected, taking the opportunity to stare at him some more.

He's not my type.

I think that's the weirdest thing about all this. Kurt is just not my type. I tend to fall for guys who are older. More masculine looking. I've never been interested in guys like Kurt before, and yet it's like he's the most beautiful, mesmerizing person I've ever seen. The first time I laid eyes on him, I knew he'd be smart, and funny, and warm. He's all of those things, and really, I've never fallen so fast.

Fashion was apparently the right way to break the ice. He talks and talks, until all the nervousness has slipped away and it feels like we're just old friends having coffee.

"Enough of my voice," he says finally, looking sheepish. "Tell me about yourself, Blaine."

"I'm afraid it's not a very interesting story."

"That's okay, I have low standards."

We both laugh. "Okay, well, I'm originally from California. My family moved to Ohio when I was five, so that my dad could set up a private practice in Westerville." I pause to take a sip of coffee, then continue. "I'm an only child. Always loved singing and dancing. Not so great at sports. What else... Uh... I came out to my parents when I was twelve. Went to public school until freshman year, when the bullying got too bad. My dad's family is originally from the Westerville area and had connections at Dalton, so the school let me transfer mid-year. Transferred to another public school my senior year, got attacked, brain trauma, memory loss, blah blah blah."

"I'm fairly certain that's the only time in history that the phrase _brain trauma, memory loss, blah blah blah _has been uttered."

I shrug. "At this point I'm used to it. It's old news."

Kurt is fiddling with a piece of biscotti, not looking at me. "So... why did you transfer to the other public school?"

"Did I not mention the memory loss?" I say cheekily.

"I know you don't remember. But you must have asked your parents at some point."

"I did, yeah. It was the first thing I asked them when they told me about the attack."

"And?"

"My dad said I'd just gotten the idea in my head." This isn't quite true. What my dad actually said, sounding terribly bitter, was _You were in love. _And then he looked at my mom, his eyes widening, and added, _with the idea of going back to public school._

It's a strange memory. But then, so many of my memories are strange.

Kurt nods blankly. "I see."

"And now I'm home-schooled, as you know. I spend most of my time studying or hanging out with my parents."

"What about your friends?"

"What friends?" I smile ruefully. "I've known you for a day, and you're the closest thing I have to a friend."

His mouth falls open. "You're not serious."

"As a heart attack. Guess I was a pretty unpopular guy."

"But what about your Dalton friends?"

"Never heard from any of them."

"What about Wes...terville people?" His eyes dart away.

"No, man, there's no one. Way to rub it in."

"I'm not judging you – you're great, Blaine. You deserve friends. You deserve to see someone other than your mom or dad."

"I'm seeing you, aren't I?" He smiles at me, slow and warm, and I can feel my stomach flip-flop sweetly. "So. Tell me about yourself," I say, leaning my chin on my hand and smiling back at him. "I want to know what makes Kurt..."

"Hummel."

"What makes Kurt Hummel tick."

"Well..." he takes a sip from his coffee, looking thoughtful. "I was born and raised in Lima. Always very theatrical, always into fashion." I give a one-shoulder shrug. No surprises there. "My mom died when I was young, so it was just me and my dad for a long time."

"What was that like?"

"Hard. Lonely. Luckily I have a great dad. He accepts me for who I am, and I know I can always count on him." Kurt's fingers start stroking at the scar on his neck again. "When I was in high school, he got remarried. So our little family doubled; I had a new step-mom and step-brother. Carole is a nurse, and Finn works at the auto shop with me and Dad."

"Do you like them?"

"I love them." He's stroking the scar harder now, his fingernails catching on the thin chain of his necklace. "Finn's a great guy. He was the star quarterback at my high school, and he always had my back when he could." His hand stills as he realizes what he's doing, and he pulls it back, blushing.

"When did your attack happen?" I broach gently, and he grows tense.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay." We sit in silence for what feels like forever, until I ask, "What sort of necklace are you wearing?"

He looks startled. "What?"

"You were wearing that chain the last time I saw you, too. Why do you keep it under your clothes?"

"I..." Kurt takes a deep breath, and pulls the chain out from under his jacket. I can see a silver ring dangling from it. The ring is delicate and intricate and absolutely _gorgeous_ – it looks like winding vines of ivy, all in sterling silver.

"Wow. That's stunning."

"Thanks. I designed them, actually."

"Them?"

"My boyfriend and I ordered them together, as promise rings. We used a jeweler in Columbus."

And with that, the world stops. My breathing, my heart, everything stops. "Oh," I choke out. "You and your boyfriend."

"Yeah."

"I should... I should go."

He looks up from the ring. "What?"

"I think we had different ideas about today." My head is spinning. I need to go home. And hide in my closet. For the rest of my life. "I thought... but you have a boyfriend, and–"

"Blaine." He reaches out to grab my hand, stilling me as I'm trying to rise to my feet. "I don't have a boyfriend."

"But you said–"

"I _had_ one."

"Had."

"But not anymore."

I sit back down hard, blowing out a sharp breath of relief. "Not–"

"No."

"Then why are you still wearing the ring?"

Kurt is still holding my hand, squeezing it tightly. "That night... I wasn't the only one attacked. My boyfriend was with me, and they went after him a lot harder. As bad as my injuries were, his were even worse, and..." He swallows hard. "And I lost him."

"Oh my god," I gasp. "I am so, so sorry." I squeeze his hand back hard. This explains his tears yesterday, and the abrupt way he left the coffee shop. I'll bet I'm the first guy he's dated since his boyfriend died. "That must have been so painful."

He nods, blinking fast. "It was."

I take a deep breath. "Kurt... it seems like this is still really fresh for you. Are you sure you want to move on so quickly? Maybe what you need right now is a friend."

He's trembling a little, but his voice is steady. "Blaine, believe me when I say you are the _only person_ I'd consider moving on with."

My heart skips a beat. He understands. He feels it too, this connection between us. I'm still a little uneasy about how ready he is to start something new, but I have to give it a chance. "How about we just take things slowly, and tell each other if anything goes faster than we'd like."

"That sounds perfect." He squeezes my hand again before letting go. "I've got to get to work. Maybe we could see each other next week?"

"Or tomorrow?" I ask hopefully.

He smiles, looking relieved. "Yes. Tomorrow. Same time, same place?"

"I'll be here." I watch him leave, and wonder how early I'll need to arrive in order to beat him here.


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N**: I have to be honest, this story is not turning out at all like I'd planned. Every time I sit down to write, something completely unexpected comes out. I'm trying to go with it, because it feels more organic that way and I do like what's coming out, but the downside is I honestly have no idea how long (or short) this story will end up being. In any case, thank you so much for reading. I hope I don't let you down._

_Once again, this never would have been posted without the assistance of my dear, dear Cathedral Carver. Period three._

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><p>The next morning, I arrive at the coffee shop almost an hour late.<p>

It's not my fault. I leave my house with plenty of time to spare. But there's an accident on Route 117, and traffic is at a standstill for more than two hours. The temperature outside is hovering right around freezing, so I let my car engine idle to keep the heat on. So do all the drivers around me. There's nothing good on the radio, and nothing to do but people-watch. I look around at all of my highway neighbors, and think about how isolated we all are from each other, stuck in our own little insulated worlds.

There's a guy in a Buick to my left, reading a newspaper. Our faces aren't even five feet apart, and he must know I'm watching him, but he doesn't look over. I make a game out of it, imagining who he is, where he's going. He's a businessman, I decide, and although he's late to a meeting, it's one he doesn't particularly want to attend. So he's flipping through the _Dispatch_ to pass the time. He feels compelled to read up on corporate news even though he's secretly anxious to get to the latest Fox Trot comic strip.

Once I've exhausted the amusement factor he provides, I turn to my right, where there's a teenaged girl with punky neon-dyed hair and facial piercings, smoking a cigarette and fogging up the windshield of her Corolla. I start in on her, too, imagining that she once was an angelic church-going cheerleader, but a scandalous teen pregnancy and subsequent adoption left her feeling–

A series of loud, blaring car horns startle me, and I notice that the traffic ahead has cleared. The people in the line of cars behind me look furious. I shift my car into drive and take off, muttering a profanity under my breath.

Maybe Dad is right. Maybe I do need to go back on medication.

When I finally arrive at the Lima Bean, the parking lot is full, so I have to park on a side street. After dropping several quarters into the meter, I hurry into the coffee shop, craning my neck to search for Kurt. He's sitting at our usual table. At first his face looks strange, but when he notices that I've arrived, he gives me a wide smile. The line for coffee is long, and I don't know where to look while I wait. Kurt is watching me brazenly, but I feel too bashful to stare back. Eventually I just take my phone out to play Solitaire.

"Medium drip?" asks the barista, a guy I've never seen before. I gape at him, and he looks impatient. "Yes or no, buddy?"

"Uh... yes, please. And a plate of biscotti." I go through all the motions – paying, retrieving my coffee, preparing it with cream and sweetener and a few shakes of cinnamon – while Kurt's eyes follow my every move. Once I'm done, I pick up my coffee and the biscotti and march over to the table, dropping into the seat across from him with a thud. "Sorry I'm late," I sigh. "Car accident."

His eyes widen. "You got into a _car accident_?"

"No, not me. I just got the traffic end of it."

"Oh." He's fiddling with his coffee cup, turning it in slow circles.

My eyes widen as realization dawns. "You were worried about me."

He scoffs. "No I wasn't."

"You _were. _You were_ totally worried_ about me," I tease.

"I... Okay, maybe just a little."

I swear I can actually feel my heart melting into a puddle of goo. "I really am sorry. I would've called to let you know, but I didn't have your number."

He holds his hand out, palm up. I blink at him, surprised – the coffee shop is bustling this morning, and he doesn't normally try to hold my hand unless the place is empty. Far be it for me to complain, though. I slip my hand into his and squeeze it–

Kurt laughs at me. "I want your phone, Romeo."

"Oh. Right." My cheeks flushing, I pass my cell over to him.

He hunches over it, his thumbs flying across the keys, and when he hands it back, I see that he has programmed a new number into my contact list. "Now you can call or text me if you ever run into a problem again."

He wants me to have his number. So I can get in touch with him in the future. "Caffeine Fiend?" I read aloud, a little giddy.

"Well, I figured I needed a pseudonym. We wouldn't want your mom or dad finding my name in there."

"Why not?"

He shifts in his seat. "They might freak out if they suspect you're dating me."

My face falls. "Hey, that's not fair. You don't even know them." I like this guy, I do, but I'm not going to sit here and listen to him belittle my parents. "They don't have a problem with me being gay." He raises one eyebrow silently. "They _don't_," I insist.

"So you've dated a lot, then?" he asks. "I mean, you're attractive, smart, nice. Good sense of humor. Must have had a ton of boyfriends, right?" My gaze slips down to the table, and he nods. "Yeah, I'm sure it has nothing to do with your parents."

"I had a boyfriend once," I shoot back sullenly. He doesn't respond. When I glance up, he looks stricken, and a little part of me takes a mean satisfaction that I've made him jealous. "Before the attack. At some point I did have a boyfriend."

"They, uh... they told you that?" he asks shakily.

"No."

"Then how do you–"

"It doesn't matter. I'm just saying I had one once."

He nods, slowly. "Have you ever tried to find him?"

"No. I figure we must have broken up sometime before the attack."

"Why do you say that?"

I give him an incredulous look. "I was beaten within an inch of my life, Kurt. I was in a coma for months, and recovery for even longer. What sort of a boyfriend would have abandoned me during a time like that?" He's chewing at his bottom lip now, his eyes welling up with tears, and I shake my head at him fiercely. "Don't do that. Don't pity me."

"I'm–" He clears his throat, takes a deep breath. "Look, Blaine..."

"Hey, I'm fine," I tell him quickly. "It all worked out okay for me in the end. If he hadn't left me, I wouldn't be here with you now, would I?" I smile at him shyly. "Honestly, I'm starting to think fate led me to you."

He does reach for my hand this time, and I let him hold it. We sit in silence, sipping our coffees and ignoring the ticking of the clock on the wall.

On Friday morning, I arrive so early I actually beat him there. It's worth it to see his face light up when he comes in.

We sit there for hours, talking about almost everything. I've never known anyone as captivated by musical theater as I am, but Kurt's enthusiasm for it might even exceed my own. We discuss our favorite Broadway shows, debating ones which have the best scores and the most striking scenes. He's brought in old issues of fashion magazines, and we both laugh over his grudging acceptance of the hipster phenomenon.

There are things we don't talk about, though. I don't bring up his attack, and he doesn't bring up mine. Neither of us mentions his old boyfriend, although sometimes it feels like his ghost is flitting around our table. We talk about our mutual love for _Rent_, and when I tell him that "I'll Cover You" is my favorite song from that libretto, Kurt turns pale and doesn't say anything. I want to tell him that I've always dreamed of singing it with the man I love, but he clearly has his own sort of history with that song, so I leave it alone.

We linger at the Lima Bean til well past noon. I keep expecting him to excuse himself and leave for work. But every time he opens his mouth after a silence, it's to ask what I think of Adam Lambert's new look, or Beyonce's new album, or the homoerotic subtext in _Sherlock Holmes_. It's only when I offer to buy us sandwiches from the counter that Kurt finally looks over at the clock.

"I've got to get to the shop," he says regretfully.

"Play hooky," I suggest, flashing my most winning smile. "Stay with me instead."

He sighs, his eyes warm. "I wish I could... I'll miss you this weekend."

I'm both gleeful that he'll miss me and gutted that I'll have to spend two whole days without his company. I've only known this guy for four days, and yet I already seem to divide up my days into Time Spent With Kurt and Time Spent Without Kurt. It's stupid, and borderline obsessive, and I can feel a blush spreading across my cheeks.

He has a life outside of this little coffee shop. He has a loving family and lots of great friends. Of course he'd want to spend his weekends with them.

"I'll miss you back," I murmur.

"You'll be too busy to miss me," he claims dramatically.

"Impossible."

It's gotten easier, this flirting between us. Kurt has been a bit more relaxed every day. We tease each other gently, compliment each other often. Sometimes when our hands touch lightly, I have to fight the urge to shiver.

Is this what love feels like? Can you really love someone after just four days? A week ago I would have said that was absurd. But a week ago, I hadn't spent hours and hours talking with Kurt, smiling and listening to his sweet voice, my heart leaping at the brush of our fingertips–

Suddenly I have the strangest spell, imagining Kurt wearing a Dalton vest and leaning against a bookshelf, but I blink and the vision is gone. He's gazing at me almost lovingly, and I have to drop my eyes to the table. It's overwhelming, being here with him.

"I'll see you Monday?" he asks hopefully, standing and slipping his overcoat on.

"Monday," I nod.

He reaches over to squeeze my hand, before heading out into the cold.

I think about him all evening. My parents and I have our usual family dinner, filled with polite conversation and the usual inquiries into my studies. Dad asks about an architecture project that he assigned me a week ago, and I have to admit that I haven't even started it.

It's not like me.

And they notice it's not like me.

Evading their questions, I claim to be tired and disappear into my bedroom. But staring at the wall of dried roses isn't enough for me tonight. I finger my cell phone, fighting the urge to send Kurt a text message. I don't want to scare him off by appearing too interested, too soon.

I don't sleep. I stare at the ceiling, my mind swimming with increasingly outlandish scenarios involving me and Kurt: dousing a crowd of girls with foam, singing and dancing around flaming purple pianos, riding pink unicorns across cartoon rainbows. Counting sheep doesn't make me drowsy; neither does my white noise machine. At dawn, when sleep is still eluding me, I finally creep down the stairs. My parents are never awake this early on a Saturday. I scrawl a note and leave it on the kitchen table: _Going to sketch some bridges for my architecture project. Back in time for dinner, love you._

It's snowing hard outside. There are already several inches of snow on the ground, and I'm grateful for my four-wheel drive as I pull out of the driveway and head towards Lima.

What am I even going to do when I get there? I don't know where Kurt lives. I've passed by Hummel Tires and Lube on the drive into town, but it seems unlikely that he'll be at work on a Saturday. I should have texted him before I left. But I don't want to look needy. Or obsessive.

God, what if I _am _needy and obsessive? Who stalks a guy's town after knowing him for four days? Who thinks about him constantly, makes up bizarre daydreams involving foamy prep school girls and mythical creatures? At several points, I slow down, intending to make a U-turn and head back to Westerville. But every time, something makes me put my foot back on the accelerator.

The town is quiet. Between the foot of snow on the ground and the early morning hour, it seems that I'm the only one to venture outside today. When I finally reach the Lima Bean, I see that there's one other car in the lot.

It's a Navigator.

My heart pounding in my chest, I park quickly and run across the lot, my boots crunching the snow down loudly as I go. I can see him through the window. His head is in his hands, but as I pull open the door, he looks up and sees me. And then he's on his feet, striding toward me, his eyes blazing, and god, I can feel myself crumble as he reaches me.

"I don't understand what's happening," I manage, as he grabs me and pulls me tight against him. He rocks me back and forth as I clutch at him, a sob trapped in my throat.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N:** I wrote much of this chapter a week ago, but didn't post it because something felt off about it. Then a lovely reviewer named **Amethyst-Unicorn** told me to listen to an Adele song called "Don't You Remember," and I did (on repeat for like three days) and everything clicked. And I scrapped most of the chapter and started over, and liked it ever so much better. So thank you, Amethyst-Unicorn, you're my hero. _

_Oh, I also caved and joined tumblr. My username is **ckofshadows**. I'll post sneak peeks at new chapters there. Stay tuned... and thanks for reading!_

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><p>Kurt smells like home.<p>

Which is a strange thing to think, really, because he doesn't smell anything like my parents' house. He smells like cologne and clean laundry and damp wool and skin, and hugging him might be the single most amazing experience of my entire life. I relax into his arms with a sigh. He makes me feel so _safe. _I let myself imagine, for a moment, what it would have been like to have Kurt in my life when I was in high school. I picture stolen kisses in secluded Dalton alcoves... holding hands in the back row of the Lima movie theater... making out in the back seat of my–

"I missed this," he whispers faintly.

I pull away quickly, my arms crossing tightly around myself to replace the lost warmth. "What?"

His eyes widen as he realizes what he said – that he essentially just mixed me up with his dead boyfriend, just as I was picturing myself sharing my life with him.

"Sorry." He doesn't look sorry.

"It's okay." It's not okay.

We stand there, not looking at each other, as the barista behind the counter answers the ringing telephone. I can't decide what I want to do more – fall back into his arms, or run away. "Is this normal?" I ask finally.

"Is what normal?"

I shrug helplessly. "Wanting to spend every minute of every day with someone I barely know? Feeling better just because you're in the same room with me? I just... I don't know. Is this normal? Because I kind of feel like I'm losing my mind here."

Kurt sighs. "I don't know if it's normal, but at least we're in the same boat."

"You mean–"

"I feel the same way about you, yes."

I bite my tongue, trying not to ask, but I can't resist. "Was it like this for you before? With your old boyfriend?"

He nods sadly. "It was exactly like this."

The barista hangs up the phone and calls out to us. "Um, excuse me, guys?" She looks apologetic when we turn toward her. "That was my boss. He says the snow is supposed to get worse, and he wants me to close up the shop for the day." I don't say anything, so Kurt offers her a polite smile in response. "Do you want me to make you anything first?" she asks, reaching for her coat and hat. "Coffee? Espresso?"

"No, your boss is right, you should go home," he replies. Then he looks at me searchingly. "Blaine, if the roads are going to be bad, you probably shouldn't head back to Westerville."

"Probably not," I agree quietly.

"You should come home with me. Wait it out."

I feel like I'm already waiting too many things out. But I can't say no to this boy, and so I trail behind him out into the snow, toward our cars. We drive slowly down a series of sleepy Lima streets, until at last I follow his Navigator into an unshoveled driveway. His house is tiny, a single story all of brick. I park and get out of my car, glancing around at the neighborhood. From Kurt's usual attire, I'd expected his family to be on the wealthy side, like mine. But this area is decidedly run-down.

He's already heading up the little path to the front door, so I hurry to catch up.

"Home sweet home," he says wryly, unlocking the door and stepping inside. We enter into a kitchen, which is odd. Don't front doors usually lead to foyers, or at least living rooms?

"I like it," I tell him. And I do. Kurt lives here. "Is this the house where you grew up?"

"This place? No, we've only lived here for about eight months." He peels off his overcoat and holds out his hand until I slip out of my own coat and give it to him. "We used to live in a nicer house. But after the attack, my hospital and physical therapy bills were kind of overwhelming... and Dad's insurance didn't cover any of my counseling sessions. So money became too tight for us to stay there." I catch the guilt in his expression as he hangs our coats on a hook by the door.

"I'm sorry," I tell him lamely.

He nods. "You want anything to eat or drink? Coffee? Tea?"

"Actually, coffee would be great. Since we left the Lima Bean empty-handed and all."

"No problem." He starts a fresh pot of coffee, then pulls out a couple of mugs, spoons, a carton of cream and a little bowl of sweetener. When the pot is ready, he starts to reach for the mugs, then pauses, a strange light in his eyes. "Which one do you want?" he asks me.

"Which mug?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, I don't care." Not entirely true, actually. One of the mugs is Tiffany blue with a delicate handle. The other has an old-fashioned mustache design printed on it. If I knew Kurt a little better, I'd totally want to take the mustache one and do my best impression of Groucho Marx for him. I _don't_ know him that well, though, and when he keeps watching me expectantly, I finally reach out and take the blue mug to be safe. Kurt looks crestfallen. "Did you want that one?" I ask him, confused.

"No. No, you're fine."

He's quiet, though, not looking at me as he prepares our coffee. I can't help feeling like I just failed a test without even knowing I was taking one.

We sip our coffee at the kitchen counter. I glance wistfully at the mustache mug. It really is awesome.

"We can chat in the living room, if you want," he ventures when we're both finished, and I nod agreeably, following him a few steps down a small hallway.

There's a large framed photo on the wall, and I stop to study it curiously. Kurt looks a year or two younger in it, his hair swooped to the side, his cheeks a little fuller. There's a tall guy our age beside him – must be Finn – and a woman with a pleasant look about her. And then there's... huh. My head cocks to the side. Is this really what Kurt's dad looks like? He's bald, and unrefined, and pretty much _exactly_who I envisioned the day I met Kurt.

Weird.

"My family," Kurt says from beside me. I turn to smile at him, and nod. "What do you think of my dad?"

I look back at the photo. What am I supposed to think of his dad? This feels like another test, and I'm bewildered by what to say. I mean, he's a dad. He looks like a dad. And he looks like the mechanic I know he is, too. I'm sure he's in stained coveralls much of the day, leaning over the hood of a car as I hand him a carburetor–

"Well?" Kurt's squeezing my arm, his eyes hopeful.

"He looks nice."

He doesn't seem crestfallen this time around; he seems almost angry. "That's all?"

I shrug, lost. "He looks... _really_ nice?"

"I know what's going on, Blaine," he bursts out. "I can see it, when it happens. Do you really think I can't? Do you think I'm stupid?"

"No," I say desperately. "No, I think you're wonderful."

He's falling apart in front of me, tears spilling down his cheeks. "I don't know how to do this," he whispers brokenly. "I know it's not your fault, I do, I just... I just miss you so much. I miss you all the time."

Out of all the scenarios I ever envisioned for our first kiss, I never pictured anything like this: me rushing forward to claim his mouth feverishly, dizzy with confusion, our lips sliding together, wet with Kurt's tears. It feels like everything. _He_ feels like everything.

"I never even let myself hope," he groans, leaning down to place kisses along my jaw, my neck, my collarbone. "I thought I'd never get to kiss you again."

I pull back, breathing hard. The air in the room feels charged, like something big is happening. Kurt's staring at me, and I'm staring back. "Maybe," I murmur, "maybe we should watch a movie or something."

"A movie?" He looks like he's not familiar with the word.

"Yeah, I just... yeah."

He nods, glances down at my lips. "Yeah, of course. We said we'd take it slow, right?"

I smile self-consciously, and he kisses my cheek quickly before heading down the hall. I turn to the right and head into the living room, trying to get my bearings.

It's a small and comfortable room, with a lived-in feeling that has always eluded my mom's pristine parlor. The leather couch sags invitingly, and all of the chairs have worn spots on the arms. It's the kind of room I'd like to curl up in with a good book. Speaking of which, there's a large bookcase on the far wall. I wander over, curious as to what this family likes to read. I spot some Tom Clancy novels and most of the Harry Potter books next to several paperback copies of classics. Then, my attention shifts to a series of framed photos adorning a high shelf.

"Oh my god," I murmur, reaching for one of them. It shows a fair-skinned woman holding a toddler, and from the child's eyes and smile, I know it's Kurt. He's adorable, with round cheeks and pudgy fingers that look sticky with grape jelly. He's clutching the woman's long beaded necklace, while she smiles at the camera with very familiar-looking blue eyes.

A lump forms in my throat. I've never had this sort of relationship with my mom. Our family photos are stiff, formal, posed. Even at a young age, I was always dressed in an uncomfortable starched shirt and polished shoes. I'd stand in front of my parents awkwardly, while each of them rested one hand on my shoulders. This photo is the complete opposite. There's so much warmth in their expressions, so much ease in their pose. Mrs. Hummel's arms are wrapped around Kurt's torso, and he looks as secure as can be.

I can't imagine how hard it must have been, for Kurt to have experienced that sort of love and lost it so suddenly. And then to lose his boyfriend on top of it all... it's almost too much to bear.

I replace the frame, my eyes scanning over the photos lined up beside it on the shelf. There's one of a young man in a military uniform - not sure who that is. Then there's a photo of a football team hoisting a trophy into the air, and then – my breath catches in my throat. Then there's the most beautiful picture of Kurt I could possibly imagine. I pull it down, gazing at it in wonder.

He's turned toward the camera as he's hugging someone, and his face – unmarked by scars or grief – is absolutely radiating joy. My eyes travel over his wide grin, his scrunched-up nose and gleaming eyes, and I wish I could know this Kurt. There's no fear or pain in this boy. He's strong and safe, loving and loved.

I look a little closer at the person he's hugging. I can only see his back, but he's a bit shorter than Kurt. His hair is slicked back, either wet or gelled. His face is buried against Kurt's neck, and... oh.

This is him. This is the boyfriend.

It's clear, once I realize it. Kurt's hands are splayed low across his back, and the boy's palm is cupping the side of Kurt's neck. They're not hugging as much as _embracing_, and it almost feels as though the camera intruded on a private moment.

Something's odd, though. Something about the boy. His hair, and his height, and his coloring.

I can feel the blood drain from my face as it hits me. How fast Kurt seemed to fall for me. How he slipped today, and said he missed hugging and kissing me. The way he stares at me sometimes, his eyes unfocused as though he's imagining someone else completely.

Oh, god. I'm such an idiot. He's never felt anything for me at all. I reel backwards, sinking into an armchair and struggling to breathe.

I remind him of his dead boyfriend. He's just using me.

I hear footsteps approaching from the hall, and I look up in time to see him round the corner. "I'm thinking that today calls for a musical marathon," he says, looking down at a stack of DVDs in his hands. "Do you prefer old Hollywood, or–"

"I found something on your shelf," I interrupt.

"What–" He freezes when he sees the photo I'm holding. "Oh... god. Oh, Blaine."

"I think I deserve an explanation," I say icily.

He swallows hard. "Yeah," he says finally, "I think you do."


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: **Workisfun** drew an amazing, amazing picture based on this story, and I am just floored by it (you can find a link to it on my profile page). So this chapter is dedicated to her and her remarkable talent. My heartfelt thanks to **Cathedral Carver **for inspiring and pushing me, and my new tumblr friends for being such awesome and interesting people. _

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><p>Kurt drops down onto the couch across from me, his shoulders sagging, head hanging. When he finally looks up, I'm surprised that it's not shame or guilt I see in his expression; it's relief. Like he's been waiting for this moment forever. "I'm sorry. I should have told you," he says. "That first day in the coffee shop, I should've told you."<p>

"Yeah. You really should have."

"I wanted to. I just wasn't sure how you'd react."

The ache of betrayal isn't easing. If anything, it's growing. These past few days that I've spent pining over him, daydreaming about him, finally feeling him in my arms and tasting him on my lips... it's all meant nothing to him. "You made me think I was special."

"You _are_ special," he says at once, reaching out for my hand. I pull it back, and he looks as though I've slapped him.

"I'm not interested in being with someone who's still living in the past," I tell him. "I don't want to be a stand-in."

"I'm not living in the past."

"Aren't you?" I wave the photograph in its frame. "Who do you want to date, Kurt, me or him?"

He shakes his head. "I'm not following."

"You mean to tell me it's a coincidence that me and your dead boyfriend look–"

"My what?"

"I get it. I do. It was traumatic, and awful, and he was the great love of your life. But I'm not him. And it's not fair to string me along just because I remind you of him."

He looks at the photo again, then back to me, realization dawning in his eyes. "Blaine... I never said my boyfriend died."

"Yes you did."

"No, I didn't."

"You did too, you said you–" My eyes close briefly. Oh. "You said you lost him."

"You thought–" He gapes at me. "What are... what do you think that picture shows, exactly?"

I swallow past the lump in my throat. "You. Happy."

"Happy with...?"

"Some guy with my coloring and an unfortunate sense of style," I shoot back. He reacts the one way I don't expect; he throws back his head and laughs loudly, sounding delighted. "I'm serious," I insist. "Does he not understand that there are solid colored fabrics out there, that he doesn't need to combine plaid with checks and stripes and polka dots all in the same outfit?"

Kurt just laughs louder, his eyes scrunched closed tightly, one palm pressed hard against his chest. It's making me even angrier that he's not seeing my point. Kurt lives for fashion. How could this travesty of a boyfriend – who's apparently still out there somewhere – have made him as ecstatically happy as he looks in the photograph?

"And he must be color-blind," I add savagely. "Because really, neon orange and flamingo pink should not–"

"It's you," he gasps, wiping away tears of hilarity.

"What?"

"It's you, Blaine, it's you."

I stare at him dumbly. "What's me?"

"The photo, you idiot. It's you and me."

His tears are leaking out too fast, now, and the hand against his heart seems to be clutching at something. He draws a series of shuddering breaths, wiping his cheeks with the back of one hand.

And he waits.

And I stare at him blankly.

"Kurt... I'm not sure what you..."

He sniffles daintily, then stands and extends a hand. "Just... come with me. I want to show you something." When I don't take his hand, he drops his arm down with a sigh. "Please. I promise things will make more sense when you see it."

He turns and starts to walk away, swiveling his head back to raise one eyebrow at me. I'm standing before I realize it, trailing after him like a fool. Why does he hold this power over me? What's stopping me from turning, running out the door, and just forgetting I ever met this guy?

I follow him down the hallway, past a couple of closed doors and into a small bedroom. Most of the space in here is taken up by a big wooden bed, with crisp white sheets and a red coverlet. It smells like Kurt's cologne in here, and fresh linens, and I can't take my eyes off the bed, picturing the two of us in it, defiling the clean sheets with–

"Blaine?"

I finally look at Kurt, who's got one hand raised, gesturing to the wall behind him.

The wall that is absolutely covered with pictures of me and Kurt.

I step toward it, my mouth falling open as I absorb the full magnitude of what I'm seeing. Photo after photo of us smiling together, singing together, even dancing together.

"What is this?" There's a sudden rush of anger surging through my veins. "Kurt, what the hell _is_ this?"

"This is the sixteen months you lost," he replies quietly.

"No."

"You said it yourself, honey. You had a boyfriend before the attack. Before _our_ attack."

I can feel the blood draining from my face. "Our–" He nods, and I look at his scars again, finally noticing how they've healed just about as much as mine have. "You're lying."

"I know you don't believe that."

"Yes I do." I'm feeling dizzy. "You Photoshopped all those pictures."

"I understand," he says calmly. "It's a lot to take in."

There's no way. There's no way he's telling the truth. My parents wouldn't have kept something like this from me. I can't stop looking at the stupid faked photos, with our big dumb smiles and my ugly clothes and our matching promise rings–

I turn away, breathing erratically and steadying myself on his dresser. There's another framed photograph on top of it, with the two of us in matching tuxes. Kurt is smiling even wider than he did in the living room picture, as he pins a rose boutonnière onto my lapel–

I have to get out of here.

Stumbling out into the hall, I wrap one arm across my stomach, willing myself not to vomit.

"I know you've remembered things," he says behind me. "Things about me and you."

"I have not."

"What did you see when you looked at my bed, then?"

I turn back toward it involuntarily, and the vision is back, of our bodies twisting and writhing against each other beneath the sheets. "They're just spells, they're not real."

"When have you ever heard the word _spells_ used outside of a Jane Austen novel?" he demands. "Your dad is a psychiatrist. If you were hallucinating, he'd call it that. But he won't, because he knows what's really going on. They're not spells, Blaine, they're memories."

"They couldn't be. They're too insane to be real."

"Try me."

"Did you and I spray foam all over a bunch of prep school girls?"

"Yes."

I roll my eyes. "Come on, we did not."

"We really did."

"In some huge empty warehouse? How would we even get a foam machine? And how would we get it up on a scaffolding?"

"The Warblers' Senior Council arranged it."

"Fine, then, did I perform a bunch of songs in an outdoor amphitheater with instrumentalists spontaneously joining in and a purple piano bursting into flames behind me?"

"Yup."

"You're just saying yes to anything I say." I throw my hands up in frustration. "Did you and I ride across rainbows on the back of a unicorn? Because I saw that, too."

He sighs. "Yeah. That was on one of the old campaign posters Brittany made for me." He leans back into the bedroom, opening his bottom dresser drawer and pulling out a large sheet of cardstock. "One of the few I kept."

I take it from him and stare at it dumbly. It's a pink poster, with "Taste the Rainbow!" in bubbly letters on the top, and "Kurt 4 Prez!" at the bottom. In the middle is a picture of the two of us, riding a pink unicorn together and eating Skittles.

"She only made one print of this particular design," he says. "You always tried to take it from me whenever you came over. I'd been planning to give you a copy for your birthday, so that you could pin it up on the ceiling of your closet." At my startled look, he explains, "You said you wanted to lie on your shelf and either look up at the poster, or over to the wall, at the rose boutonnières I gave you. That way, no matter where you turned, I'd be there with you."

"How do you know about my shelf?" I ask him hoarsely. "How do you know about the roses?" Kurt doesn't answer. He just watches me with that same expression, a mixture of pity and longing. "Even my parents don't know they're up there."

"That's why we put them on the inside wall. So they wouldn't be able to see them."

"I don't understand."

"Yes, you do. You just need some time to process, that's all." He takes the poster back, and it's with difficulty that I relinquish it. The idea of lying on my shelf and gazing up at it really does seem appealing. "It's a lot to take in all at once."

My head falls back against the wall with a thud. "I live in Westerville. That's nowhere near Lima."

"I know."

"You and I met by chance, at a random coffee shop."

"It wasn't random, Blaine. We went to the Lima Bean together almost every day." He squints at me. "What do you think made you drive all the way there, anyway?"

"I was..." looking for something, I don't say. But he nods as though I spoke the words aloud. "But Westerville and Lima are over an hour apart. How would you and I have even met?"

He leans against the doorframe, one hand running along the grain of the wood. "I was in the glee club at McKinley, and we were up against the Warblers for Sectionals. So the other kids sent me to Dalton to spy on you." He smiles a little wistfully, and I have an urge to climb into his mind so I can see what he's seeing. "The Warblers caught on right away, but you were all really nice about it. And you and I became friends. I transferred to Dalton after the bullying got too bad, and after a while we started dating."

"Then what?" I ask, dubious and curious.

"I ended up going back to McKinley, and you transferred there for our senior year. Because you said you couldn't stand to be apart from me." I can hear the echo of my father's voice, saying _You were in lov_e. My knees feel unsteady.

"This doesn't make any sense," I protest weakly. "My parents wouldn't have lied to me all this time. They love me."

"They do love you. But they also lied to you."

"They wouldn't."

"They _did_." Kurt's eyes are blazing. "You think I would have just abandoned you? After everything we'd been through together, all the plans we'd made for our future together? They wouldn't let me near you, Blaine. They wouldn't even let your Dalton friends near you. They told us you didn't remember us, and that they were going to keep it that way."

"I don't even _know_ you!" I burst out. "This is insane. I have no reason to believe you." His fingers are stroking the chain around his neck again. I think about the ring dangling from the end of it. I think about promises. "I need to get out of here."

He looks up, alarmed. "There's a snowstorm outside."

"I don't care. I can't stay here with you."

"Then let me leave. You can wait inside until it lets up and the snowplows come through."

I ignore him, striding down the hallway and into the kitchen, grabbing my coat off the hook.

"I don't want you driving in this," he says, hurrying after me. "It's too dangerous."

"You don't get a say."

"Blaine, _please_."

Not looking back, I open the front door and slam it behind me. The snow is almost up to my knees as I march out to my car. I start the engine and pull out onto the road, trying to remember how we got here. Eventually I find my way back to the highway and head toward home, my head spinning.

It doesn't make any sense.

But at the same time, it would explain so much. My strong connection to Kurt. Our matching, fading scars. The missing Dalton yearbook from junior year, that would have had pictures of Kurt in it. My strange, persistent visions. The absence of my old Dalton friends. The damned roses.

I drive and drive, the thick snowfall making it hard to see very far ahead of me. Sometimes the road gets slick, and my car's tires begin to drift. I clench my jaw tight, lowering my speed a bit. When my house finally comes into view, I let out a sigh of relief. Both of my parents' cars are in the driveway, so I pull in behind them, parking and pulling the hand brake.

I can do this. I've known them my whole life. We've always been able to talk about anything. I'll just go in, tell them what's been going on, and they'll explain that it's all just a big misunderstanding.

The cold air bites at my cheeks as I climb out of the car. Snowflakes drift down to stick to my eyelashes, and I blink hard to clear them. When they're gone, my vision adjusts and I notice a car idling at the curb, just beyond our driveway. I close my car door, hitting the automatic lock.

I should be angry.

But I can't even say what it is that I'm feeling right now.

I trudge over to his car slowly, and Kurt rolls down the passenger side window. He looks miserable.

"I wanted to make sure you got here okay," he says. "I couldn't bear to worry about you more than I already do." He slides his fingertips along the steering wheel. "I'll go now."

I nod, torn, and he pulls away from the curb. My heart twists as I watch him go.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Okay, so people keep telling me that the summary for Roses in December sucks. And I am admittedly terrible at summaries, so I take no offense. I've tried every which way to come up with one, but I keep failing miserably. So, contest time! In 255 characters or less, how would you write a fanfic summary for this story? Something that makes it sound more appealing and explains more than it does now, without giving everything away? The winner will get a giftfic as a prize. :D_

_If **Cathedral Carver** is the best beta ever, does that make her the alpha beta?_

_Also, please note: This story's rating will likely be changed to M at some point._

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><p>When I enter the house, I can hear the faint sound of clinking china. A quick glance at the grandfather clock in the foyer tells me it's nearly eleven. On Saturdays, that means coffee and scones with strawberry preserves. I head down the hallway and into the dining room, where my parents are sipping coffee and sitting in a tense silence.<p>

"See?" Dad says, the creases in his forehead fading when he sees me. "I told you there was nothing to worry about, Cece. Blaine is an excellent driver."

"I know he is, but it's been snowing hard out there," Mom says, looking up at me and smiling tightly. "I'm glad you're back, dear, it's supposed to get much worse throughout the day. We might get up to three feet of snow, if you can believe it."

Dad hums a little. "Can't remember the last time we got this much." He reaches for a the little bowl of preserves, spreading some liberally on his scone. "May set some records."

They're acting so normal. Like something hasn't changed. Like _everything _hasn't changed. I dig my fingernails into my palms hard, trying to figure out a way to confront them.

If I _do_ confront them, though, and they deny it, then it's their word against Kurt's. I need proof.

"I'm just relieved we bought Blaine his new car." Mom folds back the style section of the paper before reaching for her coffee cup again. "Imagine if he'd still been driving that old station wagon when the blizzard hit."

"I wasn't driving during the worst of it," I assure her, then feel a rush of adrenaline as I add, "I stayed at Kurt's house until it let up a bit."

"Probably a good idea," she nods. Her coffee cup is halfway to her lips when she freezes, and looks over at my dad. He's wearing a similar expression of horror, and then I know. I _know_.

And then I take off running.

"Blaine!" My dad is out of his chair and sprinting after me, but I'm taking the stairs two at a time, and I've got a head start. I reach the top of the staircase before he's even halfway up, and I tear down the hallway toward his room. "Blaine, what are–"

I barrel through his bedroom door and slam it closed, locking it behind me. Dad reaches it a few second later, jiggling the handle before knocking on the door loudly. "Blaine Anderson, you open this door right now!"

My time is limited. There's a skeleton key in the kitchen drawer, and once he remembers that, I won't be able to search anymore. My eyes rake over my parents' room slowly as he pounds on the door.

It has to be here somewhere.

I went through the attic last spring when we were looking for Easter decorations. And we don't have any storage areas in the basement. If they kept it, if they hid it in the house, then it has to be in this room.

I look under the bed first, then on the shelves in their closets. I pull out each of their dresser drawers. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Biting back a swear, I can hear my dad running down the stairs. I've got maybe another minute until he makes it in here. My eyes fall on their flat-screen television set, which is sitting on top of my great-grandmother's hope chest. My dad's footsteps are treading up the stairs as I pull the TV off and set it on the floor, before pushing up the heavy lid of the chest.

There's the scrape of a key in the lock, and my dad looming in the doorway, and my mom behind him. And I notice none of that at all. Because there's a chest full of clutter and mementos and deceit in front of me, and I don't know where to begin.

My junior yearbook from Dalton? The stack of photographs with pushpin holes in them? The McKinley High pennant? The Hummel Tires and Lube sweatshirt? My head is reeling from it all. I look back at my parents, who are staring at me, frozen in place.

"Where is it?" I ask dully.

Dad looks down, but Mom is still pretending nothing is wrong. "Where's what, dear?"

"You know what. Give it back."

"Blaine, I really don't–"

"I said give it to me."

"Let's talk like rational people," Dad says, still not looking me in the eye.

"Rational?" I get to my feet, my eyes ablaze. "What's rational, Dad, erasing my past? Barring the people I love from having any contact with me?"

"I don't–"

"Give it to me!" I'm yelling now, and I've never yelled at my father. Ever. "You have no right!"

He hisses out a long breath before walking over to his dresser. "Harold, don't–" Mom moans, but he continues, opening his top drawer and reaching for his box of cufflinks. And then he's opening a hidden compartment underneath, and holding something out to me, and I'd know those intricately winding vines of silver anywhere. I take it from him, my vision blurring as the tears spill over with a foreign sensation. I don't cry, I _never _cry.

It's true, everything Kurt told me. It's all true. My parents – the people I've always trusted most – have been lying to me ever since I awoke from the coma. I turn the ring over in my palm, reading the inscription _Always __yours, __Kurt _on the inside.

"Blaine," Mom murmurs. "Please try to understand."

I don't remember this ring. I don't remember how we decided to exchange them, or how long it took Kurt to come up with a design, or whether we did anything special to present them to one another. It's like the ring just fell out of the sky, and I'm trembling with the _need __to __know._

"Why?" I croak out.

Dad drops heavily onto the bed, running his palm across the back of his neck. "It wasn't a decision we came to lightly."

I lift my head to glare at him. "Lots of thought went into it, huh?"

"The doctors didn't know if you would ever wake up," he says helplessly. "And then you did, and everything happened so fast–"

"I had friends. I had Kurt. You took them from me."

"We felt you needed–"

"Who are you to decide what I need? I could have used their support. I nearly died, and–"

"Exactly!" Mom bursts out. "You nearly _died_, Blaine! Did you ever stop to think about that? Did you ever wonder what that would have done to us, to lose our only child?"

I squeeze the ring in my hand, trying to steady myself. "You're acting like I'm to blame for what happened."

"You may well have been!"

"Cecelia," Dad admonishes quietly. "Don't."

"We don't know! No one knows! The police never apprehended your attackers, Blaine. They're still out there somewhere. And whoever they are..." She pushes her fist against her chin hard. "It's someone who you knew."

I can feel my heart drop. "What?"

She's shaking her head, her eyes bright with unshed tears, so Dad speaks up. "You were injured far more severely than Kurt was," he murmurs, his shoulders slumped. "He was able to remember what led up to the attack, and he said you'd both been taking a walk. There'd been nothing to draw their attention more to you than to Kurt."

"Meaning they knew you," Mom supplies angrily. "Either they hated you more, or they liked Kurt more. Either way, it was someone you knew."

"You can't know that for sure."

"It's likely, though," Dad says.

"It could have been someone who went to _Dalton_ with you." Mom's voice is getting shriller. "It could have been someone on Kurt's stepbrother's _football __team_. It could have been someone in your _glee __club_."

"That's why you cut everyone out of my life? Because you thought the attackers would come after me again and finish what they started?"

Dad makes a small noise, covering his lips with his fingertips. "You're all we have," he whispers. "First the attack after your school dance, then this... What's next, Blaine? How are we supposed to live with ourselves if something worse happens to you?"

"So you kept me here." I swallow hard, trying to chase the taste of bile in the back of my throat. "You made me into your little house pet, with no contact from the outside world."

"Just until college," he says entreatingly. "Just until you could leave Ohio. I couldn't move my practice, and we figured you could repeat your senior year and then go wherever you wanted. To San Francisco, or New York, or Boston. One of those big cities where this sort of bigotry isn't acceptable. We just needed you to fly under the radar until then."

"Don't you mean under the _gaydar_?" I ask with resentment.

"We don't want you to be anyone other than who you are," he insists. "But we had to keep you safe."

"I understand the need to protect me... but this was too far," I tell them tightly. "You didn't just evict my friends from my life. You made me think my memories were hallucinations. You made me think I was crazy. You _drugged _me, for god's sake."

"I asked him to," Mom says weakly. "I saw something about lithium on TV, and–"

"I never gave him lithium, Cece."

We both turn to look at Dad in shock.

"That's not true," I protest. "Those pills you brought home made me all tired and dizzy."

"That's because I was giving you Benadryl," he admits. "I wasn't about to prescribe a powerful and potentially dangerous medication to keep you from having memories. That's a line I wasn't willing to cross." He shrugs one shoulder. "Benadryl made your brain a little fuzzy, so you'd doubt what you were remembering. And usually you'd just sleep it off."

I look down at the ring in my hand, then over to the stacks of my old belongings in the hope chest. "So when were you going to tell me the truth, then? When I was ready to leave for college?" Dad's eyes are on his knees, and Mom seems to be studying her bedspread. I nod bitterly. "Right. You were never planning to tell me, were you?"

"College could be a fresh start for you." Mom smiles at me, as if it's a brilliant suggestion. "You could just start over, meet someone special–"

"I _met _someone special!" I remind her furiously. "And you took him from me. And you took _me_ from _him_, too, did you ever consider that? Did you ever consider that he might have needed me just as much as I needed him?" They both just look at me, quiet and defeated. The rage is growing stronger within me. I turn and lean over the hope chest, gathering as many items as I can carry. "I can't stay here," I mutter.

"You're not going back out there," Mom says with alarm. "Blaine, there's a blizzard."

I shove past her, my arms loaded as I march down the hall. They both hurry after me.

"Let's just discuss this like adults," Dad calls as I turn to descend the stairs. "You don't want to be on the road in conditions like these, in the state you're in right now."

When I reach the foyer, I turn and look up at the two of them. They're both standing on the stairs, looking terrified. "I can't be here right now," I tell them. "I may only remember bits and pieces of my life with Kurt, but right now he's a lot less of a stranger to me than you two are." I turn and head out the front door. They don't follow, for which I'm grateful. I lay my recovered treasures gently on my car's passenger seat before climbing into the driver's side.

The snow is coming down hard as I pull out onto the road. For a moment, I think about Kurt and his long drive back to Lima. Worry starts to twist in my stomach as I wonder whether he's safe. But I blink it away, just as I've blinked away my spells for the past year. For once, I need to focus on me.

I start to drive without having any real idea of where I'm going. It's getting hard to see out the windshield, and I know I'm going to have to find a place to wait out the storm. Inspiration strikes, and I steer the car north, staying clear of the major roads. The apartment complex is normally a twenty-minute drive from my house, but it's nearly an hour before I reach it. I park between two snow-covered cars in the lot, and load my belongings into an old shopping bag that I find in the trunk. With some interest, I notice that I managed to grab my old journal from the chest. Maybe there are answers inside.

The security code to the building's entrance hasn't changed, and soon enough I'm standing in the warm lobby, brushing snow off my shoulders and pressing the button for the elevator. Rob's apartment is on the top floor, in a quiet corner of the building. I'll be able to think here, and figure out what to do next.

I've put the key in the lock and stepped halfway into the apartment when suddenly I realize something's wrong; the lights are all on, and I can hear water running. I frown, closing the door behind me. Rob works on Wall Street, and only uses this apartment a couple of weeks out of the year. Why would he be here? "Hello?" I call out uneasily.

The water shuts off, and footsteps approach. My breath catches in my throat as he rounds the bend.

"Hi," Kurt says faintly.

"What are you... how..." I stammer hoarsely.

His eyes are red-rimmed; he's been crying. "I started driving back to Lima, but the blizzard got too bad. Thought I'd stay here until the storm passed."

"How did you get in?"

"Key."

I gape at him. "We used to come here together?"

"A few times a week," he nods. "Finally you just had a spare key made for me. Your cousin said he was fine with it." He's twisting his fingers nervously. "Should I leave?"

"No, you–" _make __me __feel __like __I'm __home_, I don't say. "You can stay."


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: I'm so, so sorry for the delay. My computer died and I had to wait for GeekSquad to salvage my hard drive files. I promise updates will come at the normal rate again now. Thanks to all my tumblr peeps for their kind support, and **Cathedral Carver** for being one of the world's greatest friends._

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><p>Kurt lounges in front of the TV, engrossed in a <em>Project Runway<em> marathon. He looks so at ease, lying back on my cousin's couch, and I have to wonder how many times I brought him here in the past. What did we do together, when we were here? Did we pretend that Rob's apartment was our own home? The idea is strangely appealing. I let myself imagine the two of us sharing intimate candle-lit dinners together. Are they memories, I wonder, or just daydreams? How can I even tell the difference?

I'm sitting at the other end of the living room, methodically going through the pile of salvaged treasures that I took from my parents' house. The photographs are easiest to start with, but somehow they're also the most confusing. Kurt shows up in many of them, and the Warblers, of course, but there are also a ton of faces I just don't know. A tall Asian boy appears often, as does an Asian girl with long hair. (_His sister? Oh, never mind, here's one of them kissing..._) There are a few shots of girls in cheerleading uniforms, an intense-looking girl with straight brown hair, a bespectacled kid in a wheelchair, a black girl making dramatic poses with Kurt... I don't recognize any of these people. But they clearly meant something to me once, if I tacked their pictures up on my bulletin board.

With a sigh, I move past the photos, and open the Dalton Academy Annual from junior year. It's clear right away why my parents chose to hide it from me; on the third page is a huge picture of Kurt and me sitting on a picnic blanket on the east lawn. He appears to be talking animatedly, and I'm gazing at him with the sappiest, most embarrassingly love-struck expression on my face.

It's easy to see why, though. He's _mesmerizing_. His eyes are alight with humor, his lips full and pink, his long pale neck just begging to be kissed as I push him further down into the couch–

"Is something wrong?"

Oh. At some point I seem to have stopped staring at the picture, and started staring at Kurt in the flesh. He's cocking his head at me curiously, and I can feel a blush spreading across my cheeks.

"No, no, everything's fine," I mumble, turning the page quickly and pretending to study a collage of speech and debate candids. Kurt settles back to watch the TV again, though I can tell he keeps glancing my way curiously.

Further into the yearbook, there are the usual full-page pictures and profiles of each graduating senior. I read the goodbye messages from my senior friends with misty eyes; Wes always did have a lovely way with words. The notes from my fellow underclassmen, though, are far less moving – they seem to be waging a battle to see who can make the most inappropriate comments about my relationship with Kurt.

Shaking my head, I flip to the H section, melting when I catch sight of Kurt's photo. He's gorgeous in the Dalton blazer, the dark fabric making his skin look even more luminescent than usual. Not even the graffiti at the bottom that I recognize as Jeff's handwriting ("_I said what what, in the butt_") can mar the beauty of the picture.

I'm nearly finished looking at the yearbook when Kurt stands and stretches. His shirt rides up a little, and I can't help staring at the pale sliver of skin that's exposed.

"I'm getting hungry," he says. "You want anything from the kitchen?"

My stomach rumbles in response, and we both smile shyly. "Is there even food here, though?" I wonder aloud.

"Sure. We always kept a bunch of non-perishables in the pantry and freezer, plus Rob restocks when he's in town. I should be able to pull something together." He disappears into the kitchen, and the faint sound of cabinets opening and pots clattering reaches my ears. The moment feels homey and intimate and only a little terrifying.

After the yearbook comes a playbill from a William McKinley High School performance of _West Side Story_. I skim the cast list and find, to my surprise, that I was not only in the musical, but had the lead role. Kurt apparently played Officer Krupke – I bet he looked hot in the uniform. I peruse the rest of the names, but none of them seem familiar.

Finally nothing is left in the stack but my old journal. I pick it up gingerly. It must hold so many answers, but for some reason I'm afraid to open it. What if it exposes even more lies? What if everything that Kurt and my parents admitted to me today wasn't _everything_ after all?

A tantalizing smell is wafting through the air, and I put the journal aside, grateful for the distraction. Kurt is in the midst of setting the table in the kitchen. I lean against the door frame, watching him carefully line up the silverware before folding a couple of cloth napkins into intricate fan shapes. I wonder why he's going to so much trouble.

He stops suddenly, looking up at me and blinking. "Oh, I... I just assumed you'd want to sit in here with me. But I can put yours on a tray if you'd rather take it into–"

"This is fine," I assure him, grabbing a couple of glasses from the cabinet. "What would you like to drink?"

"Water, please."

I fill two glasses with ice cubes and tap water, then join him at the table. He sets down two plates of food, and I peer at mine curiously. It looks like a combination of roasted vegetables and tuna fish, and smells divine.

"It's your favorite," he tells me, taking a seat. I slip into the chair across from him. "You always said it reminded you of a dish your grandmother used to make."

I taste it tentatively, and while it's quite good, I can't say it reminds me of my grandma. Then I get a hint of a familiar flavor. "Because of the coriander?"

"Because of the coriander," he nods.

We eat quietly. The air around us feels thick, heavy with tension. I can't seem to come up with any small talk to break the silence. Emily Post would be appalled at my rudeness – but then I'm not sure Emily Post ever had this particular scenario come up. What are you supposed to say to an utter stranger who knows you so completely?

Kurt glances up at me halfway through the meal, hesitating briefly before asking, "Your parents told you the truth?"

I swallow a bite of tuna. "Yeah."

"How'd that go?"

I shrug. It went terribly, of course, but I don't feel comfortable admitting that.

"At least it's out now," he says.

I move some broccoli on my plate, suddenly not hungry anymore. "I guess."

"You guess?"

"It's just that... I don't know. I have more questions than ever now. Some things don't make any sense."

"Like what?"

"Like you and me." I lay my fork down. "We dated for a long time. I assume we loved each other?"

Kurt nods, his eyes wide.

"And we even exchanged custom-made promise rings," I finish. "Ones that said _Yours always_. That implies a pretty deep level of commitment between us. So after all of the promises and all of the plans we made together... how could you just abandon me like that?"

He flinches slightly, looking hurt. "I told you. Your dad said I couldn't see you."

"No, I get that. I do. But–" I let out a low noise of frustration. "You had to have thought that my parents were doing the wrong thing by keeping us apart. So why'd you go along with it?"

"What was I supposed to do, kidnap you?" he asks, folding his arms defensively. "Storm into the hospital and drag you to my house? My family nearly went bankrupt from my own bills; how could we have paid yours too?"

"I'm not saying that. But you could have at least come to the hospital and told me the truth."

"You were in a coma for months. Your parents never updated any of us on your recovery. By the time we found out you'd woken up, you were already back at home."

"Then you could have come to the house and–"

"And said what, exactly?_ Hi, I know you don't remember me, but we planned to spend the rest of our lives together_? Your parents would have made you choose between us, Blaine, and you would have chosen them over a complete stranger. You know you would have."

I shake my head stubbornly. "But–"

"What should I have done?" he asks shrilly. "What would you want me to have done?"

"Something!" I burst out. "Anything! Not just sit around sipping coffee at the Lima Bean every day on the off chance that I'll show up–"

"Oh, yeah, because my life's been a goddamn piece of cake this past year, Blaine. Yeah, I just put off going to college and went to work in the auto shop for kicks. Because it seemed like a fun thing to do. Not because I was holding out desperate hope that your memory would finally come back or anything–"

"Why is it all on me?" I'm shouting now, my fingers braced against the edge of the table. "_I'm_ the one with the broken head. How about you put in a little effort?"

"What the hell should–"

"You should have _fought_ for me!"

"He said I couldn't see–"

"That's bullshit and we both know it," I say furiously. "I'm tired of the lies. Tell me the real reason."

We're both breathing hard, staring at each other. His mouth remains resolutely closed.

Finally I spring up from the table, gathering my stack of mementos and storming off to the guest room. I dump them on the desk before slamming the door shut and kicking it for good measure. I stop to collect myself, squeezing my eyes shut and forcing myself to breathe deeply.

It's only once I turn around that I realize this isn't the guest room anymore. From the looks of things, it stopped being the guest room some time ago.

The oak twin bed is gone, replaced with a metal queen-sized bed covered with a down comforter. The walls have been painted a robin's egg shade of blue, and instead of the old Mondrian prints on the wall, there are several framed black-and-white photographs of me and Kurt. I spin around slowly, taking it all in.

The new furniture that isn't Rob's taste.

The two matching nightstands on either side of the bed.

The lighted vanity with bottles of my favorite hair gel and an unfamiliar brand of hairspray sitting side by side.

This was our room. Rob gave me and Kurt our own room here.

The anger drains from me slowly, until I sink down onto the bed, cradling my head in my hands. I can hear the faint sound of dishes clinking, and realize Kurt is cleaning up the remnants of our dinner. Feeling guilty, I open the door and shuffle down the hall toward the kitchen.

He's loading the rinsed glasses into the dishwasher, but he straightens up when he senses my presence.

"Hi," I murmur.

"Hi."

"Look, I–"

I break off as his cell phone starts to ring. He holds up a finger, pulling it out of his pocket. "One second, it's probably just my–" He blinks, looking at the display. "It's you."

"Me?" He turns the phone to show me. _Blaine Anderson_ is on the screen, with my cell phone number underneath. "I'm not calling you," I tell him stupidly; _obviously_ I'm not calling. I don't even have my phone with me. I left it back at my parents' house when I–

Oh.

"Don't answer it," I yelp, just as he holds the cell up to his ear.

"Hello?" he says, then pauses. "Hi, Mr. Anderson... You guessed right, I'm the Caffeine Fiend on his contact list... Yes sir, he's here with me now." He's rubbing his elbow absently as he talks, and I can't quite figure out what's happening. Shouldn't he and my father be screaming at each other right about now? Why are they being so cordial? "I can ask, but I'm not sure he wants to talk to–" I shake my head quickly, and he nods. "Yes, I'm sorry, Mr. Anderson, he's not up for a conversation right now. But he's fine. I promise." He listens for several seconds, then sighs. "You're welcome. Have a good night."

I stare at him as he ends the call. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"Are you _friends_ with them now?"

He sets the phone on the counter. "You don't know what it was like, Blaine, after the attack. Seeing you lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to all those machines. We almost lost you."

"What does that have to do with–"

"Your parents have endured enough. They shouldn't have to spend tonight worrying that you're lying dead in a ditch somewhere." He pauses and sighs. "I don't like what they did to you – to _both_ of us. But it would be cruel to let them worry." He turns and finishes loading the dishwasher, as I shake my head.

Every time I think I'm starting to understand who Kurt Hummel is, he throws me another curveball.

"Kurt?" I murmur, and he turns around again. "Look, I... I'm sorry about the things I said to you before."

"No you're not." He's quiet as he leans back against the counter. "But that's okay."

"I _am_," I insist weakly.

"You're allowed to be angry, Blaine. You got beaten within an inch of your life, and you lost over a year of your memory, and everyone you love has been lying to you about it. That's a lot for you to process."

"Okay, fine, I'm still angry. But I'm also sorry for some of the things I said." I lean against the door frame miserably. "I was trying to hurt you."

He smiles mirthlessly at the floor. "It's okay. I deserve it."

I want to argue with him again, but I'm too exhausted. Between driving in a blizzard twice, confronting my parents, and fighting with Kurt, it's been an emotional roller coaster of a day. "I think I'm just going to head to bed."

"It's still snowing pretty hard out there," he says. "Is it okay if–"

"Of course you should stay here. Stay as long as you want."

"Thanks. I'll take the couch."

"Don't be silly, I–"

"I actually prefer the couch."

"No, I can sleep in Rob's room, and you–"

"I'm not trying to be noble," he interrupts. "Ever since the attack, I've had trouble sleeping, and for some reason I'm only able to sleep when I'm lying on a couch." I must still look unsure, because he adds, "Really. You should sleep in our room."

A strange feeling warms my chest when he says _our room_, and it's with some difficulty that I nod in acceptance. He turns to put the little canisters of spices back in the cabinet when a thought occurs to me. "You'll be here when I wake up, right?"

His hand stills, but he doesn't turn around. "Do you want me to be?"

"Yes."

There's a long pause, and I hold my breath. "Okay," he says finally.

"Thank you," I whisper.

I get ready for bed, using the guest bathroom and pausing when I hear the telltale sounds of Kurt turning on the shower in the master bathroom. There are spare sets of pajamas in the dresser, and I pull on a familiar pair. Then I grab a silky royal blue set that are decidedly not my style, and lay them out on the couch for Kurt before returning to the bedroom.

My journal is still on the desk. I lie in bed, staring across the room at it, conflicted. The temptation is there, certainly. It would hold so many answers. But the thing is... that journal holds answers to _another_ Blaine's life. Not mine. Why should I read a Cliff's Notes version of my forgotten year? It still won't have happened to me. It happened to that other Blaine – the one with the devoted boyfriend, and the courage to transfer to public school, and the row of dried roses in his closet.

I settle under the comforter uneasily, turning off the light and closing my eyes.

Sleep won't come.

The bed is wonderfully soft, the pillows plump and downy just like I like them, but I can't seem to fall asleep. I toss and turn for a long time, before deciding to get a glass of water from the kitchen.

The living room is dark, so I tiptoe down the hall, trying not to wake Kurt. A glance at the digital clock on the microwave tells me that it's been almost two hours since I got into bed. Insomnia has been one of the lasting side effects of my head trauma. I fill a glass with water from the tap, draining it in a big gulp. A faint rustling sound comes from the living room, and I set my glass in the sink quietly before creeping over to peek in on Kurt. My brow furrows in confusion when I see him.

He's dressed in the pajamas I set out, with his back pressed up against the back of the couch. I'd expected him to be covered in the thick throw that Rob keeps folded on the side, but he's done something weird with the blanket instead – twisted it into a tight roll and wrapped it around his waist. He's shivering in his sleep, and I pad over to the linen closet to pull out a spare quilt. Kurt murmurs a little in his sleep when I drape it over him, but then he grows quiet.

I tiptoe back into the bedroom without turning on any lights. I misjudge the distance, though, and my hip bumps into the desk, knocking several items onto the floor. Freezing, I listen for any signs that Kurt has awoken, but it's just as silent. I shut the door softly before turning on the light and picking up the fallen items.

My journal is lying open, and as I reach for it, a passage jumps out at me:

_Ever since our first night together, I can't sleep properly when Kurt's not in bed with me. My arms feels empty when they aren't holding him._

I look up, startled, thinking of the blanket roll wrapped around Kurt's waist, his spine pressed up against the couch back. Is that why he needs to sleep on a couch now – because it makes him feel like I'm spooning him?

Sighing pensively, I set the journal back on the desk before getting into bed. A flick of the switch restores the room to darkness.

I close my eyes, willing sleep to come, but my mind is jumbled with thoughts of Kurt. It's only when I grab the spare pillow, holding it tight against my chest, that I can finally drift off to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: I expect I'll lose some readers when you realize what's about to happen in the upcoming chapters. For those of you who are brave enough to stick it out, please try to trust me. And remember that I'm a sucker for a happy ending._

_(Not in the massage parlor sense.)_

_As always, my heartfelt thanks to **Cathedral Carver **__for her insight, advice, and support._

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><p>Kurt is still sleeping when I wake up, so I take a quick shower and pull on a pair of sweats that I find in the bottom drawer of the dresser. I creep quietly into the kitchen to rummage for something to eat, but the options are limited. Finally I settle on strawberry Pop-Tarts, dropping a couple into the toaster before leaning back against the counter.<p>

It's easier today, somehow. The sting of my parents' betrayal still hurts, and I still can't understand why Kurt didn't fight to stay a part of my life... but after a full night's sleep, it's a lot easier to wrap my brain around everything that I learned yesterday.

From this vantage point, I can see Kurt's sleeping figure on the couch. His face looks younger, softer when he's asleep. I wonder what it felt like to wake up next to him, back when we shared a bed together.

The toaster makes a loud clicking sound when it pops up, and Kurt starts to stir. I grab a couple of plates from the cabinet and set a Pop-Tart on each of them before heading into the living room.

"Breakfast is served, my lord," I announce with a horrible British accent, and he smiles with his eyes still closed.

"Strawberry Pop-Tarts?" he murmurs.

"Lucky guess."

Kurt's smile fades, and my heart sinks. Not a lucky guess, then. His eyes crack open, and he sits up. "Morning."

"Morning." I offer him one of the plates. He yawns widely, scratching at the back of his head as he takes it. "So this was a thing?" I ask, sitting down on the coffee table in front of him. "Me making you Pop-Tarts in the morning?"

"Yeah, it was a thing." He breaks off a piece of the pastry, blowing on it and watching the steam rise from the hot filling. "You sleep okay?"

"I did, thanks. It's a comfortable bed."

He nods. "We went to three different mattress stores before we found one that we could both agree on. We used to call it the Goldilocks mattress." At my raised eyebrows, he explains, "All the others were either too soft for me or too firm for you. That one was just right."

I bite into my Pop-Tart, hissing when the inside burns my tongue. From Kurt's soft laugh, I know that this, too, was a tradition. I hurry into the kitchen, grabbing a couple of glasses and filling them with tap water.

"Get some milk," Kurt calls out. "Trust me, it works better."

I grab a carton of Parmelat from the pantry and pour it into another glass, downing it quickly. He's right, the milk soothes my sore tongue right away. I grab one of the glasses of water and make my way back into the living room, handing it to him. "How about you?" I ask as he takes a small sip. "How'd you sleep?"

He shrugs one shoulder. "Had a nightmare around three. I got up and read one of Rob's paperbacks until I fell back to sleep. Other than that, it was fine."

"Do you have nightmares a lot?"

"Ever since the attack. You?"

"Yeah."

We eat and drink quietly. I keep sneaking peeks at him, but he looks lost in thought.

"Looks like the snow finally let up," he says after we've finished. "I should probably hit the road. My dad and Finn do inventory on Sundays, and I said I'd help them."

"Can I see you tomorrow?" I ask, cringing at the neediness in my voice.

His expression remains neutral. "Tomorrow?"

"Yeah, maybe you could come back here after work. Show me how to make that tuna dish."

"I don't know if that's such a good idea."

"Okay, then, a different dish. Or we can just rent a movie, or—"

"Blaine, please." He pauses. "We can't just jump back into something together."

"What do you mean? You said it yourself, you loved me."

"I did, but—"

"Are you mad that I yelled at you last night?"

"No, I—"

"So what's the problem, then?"

He sighs heavily. "It's like... how do I even explain this. You wouldn't remember, but sometimes, after a long glee club practice, we'd watch mindless television. Just to unwind before starting our homework. _Real Housewives_, _The Bachelorette_, that sort of thing. And this one time, we watched a special on the women who love convicts."

"Something you want to tell me, Kurt?" I smirk. "Have you been convicted of a felony?"

"No, this is important," he says earnestly. "We both thought these women were so ridiculous, to fall in love with con men. They'd send the men gifts and money and naked photos of themselves, and the men would swear up and down that once they were released from prison, they'd marry the women and start their lives together. But once they actually got out of jail, invariably they wouldn't stay faithful to the women who'd devoted themselves to them for so long. And the women would end up heartbroken."

"So you're afraid that you're going to break my heart?"

"No, I'm afraid that you're going to break mine." The hurt must be showing on my face, because he lays a reassuring hand on my knee. "The point of the show was that the men really weren't lying to the women. They honestly thought that they were madly in love and that the women would be their soulmates. But once they were free, once they had their pick of millions of other women—"

"No, I get it," I interrupt. "My parents have kept me locked away, and you think that I'm throwing myself at you because you're the first gay guy I've come into contact with."

"That's not — okay, that's kind of what I'm saying, yes."

"It's not the same. Before all this happened, before the attack, I had other choices. And I still picked you."

"Of course it's not the same. But Blaine, we don't know each other anymore." I start to protest, but he raises a hand. "I was thinking about this last night, when I couldn't fall asleep after my nightmare. Even if you'd woken up this morning and suddenly had all of your memories back, you still wouldn't know the person I am today. You missed an entire year of my life. A year during which I had to recover from a severe beating, and deal with the guilt that came from nearly bankrupting my family, and worry about my father's failing health, and grieve losing you, and regret not going to college... I'm not the same person that I was before the attack. And while yes, you did pick me back when we were in high school, maybe you wouldn't pick the man I've become."

I shake my head feebly. "But—"

"And I'm sure a lot has changed about you, too, for that matter. You're not the same boy that I exchanged promise rings with. You're just not."

There's a lump rising in my throat. Is he really breaking up with me, before we've even had a chance to really be together again? "So that's it, then? You're just giving up?"

He reaches out for my hand, squeezing it. "It's going to take a hell of a lot to get me to give up on you, Blaine. Especially when I've just gotten you back."

"Then what are you saying?"

"I'm saying I think we should get to know each other again." He pauses, and I can't help the smile that starts to spread across my face. "We can go on dates, learn about one another. See if we're still compatible. See if that spark is still there. And—" He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly. "And I think you should see other people, too."

My smile fades. "Wait, what?"

"How will you know if I'm the one, if you haven't seen what else is out there?"

"That's stupid," I retort, dropping his hand. "You're being ridiculous."

"I'm not. You've never dated anyone other than me."

"Have _you_ dated anyone other than _me_?"

"Yes." He takes my stunned silence as permission to continue. "I went on a few dates over the past several months. And I know, now, that what you and I had was special. If I hadn't gone out with those guys, I might have always wondered what else was out there." He swallows. "Do I hope that we're still compatible, and that you'll choose me again? Yes. More than anything. But I really think you need to do this first. If you don't, and we just get back together like nothing has changed, and then in a few months or years you realize that there are other guys you want more... I can recover from a crowbar to the collarbone, but I couldn't recover from _that_."

I sigh, feeling defeated. "Fine, then. How long do I have to date other people before you'll let me take _you_ out?"

"You really think I'm going to let you go gallivanting all over town with eligible young men while I wait around?" He laughs lightly. "You'll be dating me, too. That way it'll be easy for you to compare us."

Okay. This proposition isn't nearly as bad as I'd thought. I'll just claim to be dating other people while Kurt and I are getting to know each other. And eventually he'll agree to— "Wait, so when do I get to say whether I've decided that you're... _it_, for me?"

"Good question." He mulls it over briefly. "How about we agree that you won't be intimate with anyone — including me — until you're sure that he's the one for you? Kissing is one thing, but I think exchanging body fluids should imply some level of commitment."

"You're such a romantic," I tease, but he just nods.

"Yes, I am."

I pick up one of his hands and kiss his knuckles lightly. He offers me a genuine smile, and I can feel my heart beat a little faster in response. It's frustrating that my body seems to remember everything that my brain has forgotten. "How about we meet for coffee tomorrow morning? At the Lima Bean?"

"It's a date."

I walk Kurt to the door, hoping for a hug, but he just trails his fingertips down my arm before leaving.

It's a good hour before my arm stops tingling.

I head outside a little after eleven o'clock to dig my car out from the snow. Other tenants nearby are doing the same, and a couple of them wave as if they know me. Once the car is uncovered, I feel like I should drive somewhere, but there are few options on a snowy Sunday afternoon. I can't go to Lima, or my parents' house. Eventually I decide to drive by Dalton. I've missed that place, and who knows, maybe it will spark some lost memories.

When I reach campus, a wave of nostalgia washes over me. This was the place where I finally felt comfortable being myself. There's the athletic center, where I enrolled in self-defense classes just after transferring. There's the music building, where I took a chance and signed up for a cappella auditions. There's the east lawn, where Kurt and I apparently liked to spend much of our time together. A few students are strolling along the paths in their crisp blazers and ties. They look poised and relaxed. It was months before I was able to truly relax on this campus.

Unfortunately, my friends at Dalton were in my grade or the one above me, so I don't see any old buddies milling about anywhere. I park in the visitor lot and get out of the car, buttoning my overcoat and pulling a cap over my head. The air is crisp and cold, and I close my eyes to take a deep breath of it—

"What are you doing here?"

My eyes pop open, and there's an unfamiliar, unfriendly-looking boy standing in front of me. He's tall and wide, with white-blond hair and narrow blue eyes. "Pardon?"

"Why did you come here?" he presses.

"I used to go to Dalton, I—"

"You shouldn't be—"

"As I live and breathe," comes another voice nearby. We both turn and see a couple of boys in blazers walking toward us. One is short, with a buzz cut and a large mole on his cheek. The other is tall and positively gorgeous. "If it isn't Blaine Anderson," the gorgeous one says. "Never thought I'd see you around here again."

"Sorry," I say politely, "do I know you?"

"Sebastian Smythe," he says, extending a hand and smiling brilliantly. "We were friends, sort of. Met after you transferred out of Dalton. I was really sorry to hear about the assault and your memory loss, that's a tough break."

"Thanks," I return, shaking his hand.

"This is Morgan Adams," he says, gesturing to the boy beside him. "And you've already met Lawrence, I see."

"Charmed," the blond mutters. He glances warily at Sebastian.

"So what brings you back to our fair campus?" Sebastian asks me, cocking his head. "Trying to jog some memories, or just looking for a familiar environment?"

"Little of both."

"Any luck on the memory front?" His smile seems to turn a little brittle, but after I shake my head, it looks normal again. Must have been a trick of the light. "That's a shame. Well, I'd invite you to sit in on our Sunday Warblers practice, but it just let out."

"You guys are Warblers?"

"Well, _I_ am," he says, chuckling. "These two knuckleheads can't carry a tune." He turns and looks pointedly at Morgan, whose eyes dart over to Lawrence.

"We should go," Morgan says to Lawrence. "We have to get to that thing."

"What thing?" Lawrence scowls, as Morgan grabs his arm and pulls him away.

Sebastian watches them go, grinning fondly. "There's no thing," he confides in a stage whisper. "I just wanted to be able to talk to you alone."

I can feel a flush creeping up my neck. "Oh?"

"It can't be a coincidence that you came to visit Dalton right as I was walking by. It must be fate." He leans a little closer. "Let me take you out tomorrow night."

"Out? Tomorrow night?" I repeat dumbly.

"There's a gay bar called Scandals, out in West Lima. You and I went there once, had a great time."

"We did?" That doesn't sound like me. But maybe Kurt was right, maybe I have changed a lot, and — I blink suddenly.

_Kurt_.

Sweet Kurt, with his soulful eyes and his matching scars and the way he makes me feel so safe. What am I doing, talking to _this_ guy when I get to see Kurt again in a matter of hours?

"We had real chemistry back then," Sebastian is saying. "You knew it, and I knew it. So what do you say? I'll whip you up another fake ID, and we'll go dance the night away. And actually, now that I think about it, Monday is karaoke night. You _know_ you can't resist karaoke, Blaine."

There's something strange tickling at the side of my brain, like when I'm trying to come up with song lyrics and they keep slipping away just as I think I've thought of them. "I don't know."

"One date," he says, suddenly looking serious. "If you don't have fun, I'll never bother you again. What harm could one measly date do?"

I can hear the echo of Kurt's words in my head — _How will you know if I'm the one, if you haven't seen what else is out there?_

"Okay. You're on."


	10. Chapter 10

_**A/N**: Okay, the contest to write a summary for this story is still on, but the prize has increased. Write the best summary of this story in 255 characters (that's characters, not words) or less, and you will win a **Playbill from Darren Criss' Broadway debut, How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying**, plus I'll write an **exclusive Klaine story just for you** and include it in the package. _

_I hope you win! My summary sucks!_

_This is unbetaed, so if you find any mistakes, please let me know and I'll correct them. :)_

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><p>I stop for groceries after leaving Dalton, loading up on fresh fruits and vegetables, eggs, bread, rice and fish. Many of the shelves in the supermarket are nearly empty; I guess a lot of people stocked up before yesterday's snowstorm. I grab some tortilla chips and fresh salsa from the organic section. When I pass the spices, I toss a container of coriander into the cart, too, smiling to myself.<p>

The empty apartment feels colder when I get back. I check the thermostat, but the heat is working fine.

It's so _quiet_ here. As I stack the groceries in the refrigerator and pantry, I start humming an old Beatles tune_. _I'd love to call Kurt up, just for a chat, but he only left about three hours ago. Maybe I'll send him a text in an hour or so. Just to make sure he got home okay.

I settle down to watch TV when the silence gets too overwhelming. There are hundreds of shows to choose from on cable. Recalling what Kurt said about mindless television, I put on a rerun of _The Bachelorette_, but I can't get into it. Finally I cave, deciding to text him to see what he's up to. I head into the kitchen looking for my cell phone, and—

Oh, right. I left my cell at my parents' house.

The realization leaves me feeling more isolated than ever. I click through the TV channels, settling on a showing of _Elf _and feeling terribly sorry for myself. The movie is nearly over — Buddy has run away from home — when I hear a knock at the door.

I'm careful to look through the peephole before pulling the chain lock, and I'm grinning like a lunatic by the time I get the door open. "Hey!"

Kurt's grinning back at me just as inanely. He has a large duffle bag slung over one shoulder. "Hey yourself."

"Why didn't you just use your key?"

"It would've been rude." His eyes are positively dancing with mischief. I swear, he's so beautiful it makes my knees weak. "Seeing as I brought guests."

"Guests?"

He turns and makes a beckoning motion behind him, and two kids our age follow him into the apartment. One is a blonde girl, dressed in a sweater set and wool pants. The other is a rough-looking boy with a mohawk, who juts his chin toward me awkwardly.

"Hey, man. Sucks about your brain."

"Thanks…"

"Puck. I mean, Noah, but people call me Puck."

"And this is Quinn," Kurt says, gesturing to the blonde. She gives a little wave. "We all went to McKinley together. Puck and Quinn were in glee with us."

I nod politely. "Well, uh... welcome to our apartment. I mean, my cousin's apartment."

"Nice digs," Puck says, looking around. He wanders off without an invitation, and Kurt shrugs as if to say _That's Puck. _"Whoa!" he calls from my bedroom. "I totally knew you two had to have some love nest where you went to do the nasty. We should shine a black light in here, bet it looks like a goddamn motel room."

"_Anyway_," Quinn says pointedly, "Kurt, maybe you should tell Blaine why we're all here."

Kurt's eyes light up again. "When I finished doing inventory at the shop, I went to call you, to see what you were up to. And then I remembered that you'd left your phone at your parents' house."

"Right…"

"So I think we should get it back."

I shake my head. "I appreciate the thought — believe me, I do — but I really don't want to see my parents right now."

"Me neither." He rocks back and forth on his heels, grinning. "That's why Quinn and Puck are here. We're all going to steal it back."

"We're _what_?"

"Quinn's here because she looks wholesome and innocent." She makes a snorting noise, and Kurt adds, "I said _looks_. And Puck's here–"

"Because I'm the only criminal you know," Puck says, returning to the room.

"Right." Kurt walks over to the dining room table, opening up his duffle bag. "So Quinn is going to create a diversion. She'll knock on your parents' door pretending that her car broke down. While your parents are occupied with her, the three of us will sneak into your house and steal your phone back."

"I appreciate the thought, but all this isn't necessary. My mother plays bridge every Wednesday afternoon; I can go over then and get it."

"You really want to wait three whole days before you can have access to a phone again?"

I blink at him. "But I mean... there's three feet of snow on the ground. My parents would hear us if we tried to trudge through all that to find an open window."

"Ah, but what's the first thing your mother always does after a snowstorm has ended?"

"She..." My eyes widen slightly as realization dawns. "She has the gardener come dig out the rose bushes."

"Right. And since they're on the side of the house—"

"He has to dig a path that runs right underneath a lot of the windows." I have to hand it to him, he's really thought this through. I chew on my lip, glancing at Puck and Quinn, then back to Kurt, before coming to a decision. "Okay, I'm in. What's the plan?"

He claps his hands excitedly, then starts pulling items out of his duffle bag. "We'll be going once night falls, so we'll need to dress all in black. I've chosen fabrics that have a matte surface, so your parents won't catch the reflection off the sheen if they look outside. It's a shame, because I have a gorgeous black silk turtleneck that I've been dying to try out."

Quinn speaks up. "I'll park halfway down the street and walk to Blaine's house. That way his father will be less likely to offer to come outside and try to fix the car himself. Kurt said the cold bothers the arthritis in his knees."

"Makes sense," I nod, as Kurt continues pulling shirts, pants, gloves and ski masks out of the bag.

"I'll knock on the door and say that I broke down on the way to visit my grandmother," she continues.

"They'll ask who your grandmother is," I interrupt. "Go with Mrs. Morrow. She's an obscenely wealthy recluse who lives about five miles down the road. No one knows much of anything about her background, but my mom has always been intrigued by her. She'd never turn away Mrs. Morrow's grandchild. And she wouldn't offer to drive you the rest of the way, not when she could pump you for information."

"What sort of information?"

"Oh, she'll probably ask where your grandmother's money comes from, and why she keeps herself holed up in that mansion, and why nobody has ever come to visit her before. You can make up your answers; as I said, no one knows anything about her, other than her last name. Just sound confident when you're talking. My mom will buy it."

Quinn nods. "I'll tell them I called AAA but that they might take over an hour. I'll ask if they—"

"Don't ask," I correct her. "Knock on the door, apologize for the inconvenience and the late hour, but say that your car broke down on your way to visit your grandmother. You've called AAA, but it's been terribly cold sitting in the car while you wait. Then just stand there."

"And don't say anything?"

"No. A proper young lady wouldn't ask. She'd state her situation and wait to be invited in."

"What if they don't invite me?"

"They will." I watch Kurt rifle deeper in the bag and pull out what look like huge fuzzy slippers. "What are those?"

"If we climbed in the window and went walking around the house, we'd leave wet tracks from the snow on our soles. We'll slip these over our shoes once we're inside." He pulls out the last item, a large rolled sheet of paper. "Now, let's figure out our strategy once we're inside." He unrolls the paper, and I'm stunned to find myself looking at a blueprint of my parents' house.

"How did you get that?"

"You don't want to know." He positions some of the gloves atop every corner to keep the paper unrolled, then moves to the other side of the table so that we can all look at it. "I figure our likeliest entry point will be your father's study."

"Probably the best option," I agree. "It's along the path to the rose bushes. Mom tends to keep the thermostat higher than Dad prefers, and when he's in his study he cracks the window open. Even if it's closed tonight, I'll bet it will still be unlocked."

Puck leans over my shoulder, peering at the blueprint. "Okay, so where did Blaine leave the phone, so we know where to look for it?"

"That's the part of the plan that I'm most concerned about," Kurt admits. "Blaine's parents used his cell phone to call me last night. And we have no way of knowing where they left it afterwards." He gestures to the first level of the house. "We'll start at the ground floor in hopes that it's there — it would offer us the easiest exit point. Blaine, where would your parents bring Quinn after they invited her in?"

"The parlor," I reply at once. It's the standard receiving room. "Mom will offer her tea and her homemade cookies."

"I'll just tell her I'm full or something," Quinn says.

"No, you'll need to accept. Because there's a chance my dad will be so engrossed in his work that a strange girl at the door won't interest him. But almond cookies are his weakness. When he realizes Mom is serving them, he'll be sure to come out and join you. Then once he's there, he won't leave. It would be impolite."

"Okay. And then once the three of us are all settled in the parlor, I'll pretend to send a text message to my parents to let them know where I am. But I'll actually be texting Puck to let him know that it's safe to come in."

"If you see the cell phone in the parlor, Quinn, you'll need to find a way to steal it yourself without being caught, and then text us to make sure we don't come in," Kurt says. "Otherwise, we'll enter the house and begin our search." He points out the different rooms on the blueprint. "The study would obviously be the preferred location, but chances are good that they left the phone in a more communal area. The kitchen, dining room, and living room aren't visible from the parlor, so we'll search there if it's not in Mr. Anderson's study. If we still can't find it, then we'll move upstairs. The second story has Blaine's bedroom, his parents' bedroom, three guest rooms and several bathrooms. It's a safe bet that they wouldn't have left it in a guest room or bathroom, so we'd be searching the two main bedrooms. If we do have to search the second floor, Blaine and I will go alone. Puck, you'll head outside and wait for us there."

Puck frowns. "Why?"

"I'm assuming it's because of the creaky floorboards," I supply.

Kurt nods. "There were a couple of times when Blaine and I had to sneak into the house without being heard, so he taught me where to step on the stairs and in the hallways to avoid making a sound. We can't chance having you there, Puck, because one creak could give us away. If we have to go upstairs, you'll proceed outside and wait for us there." He traces one finger down the hallway on the blueprint. "Once we have the phone, we'll exit through the study window. The Andersons have never met Puck, so he's going to pose as the mechanic sent by AAA. I've borrowed a set of overalls from my dad's shop for him to wear. He'll say he was able to start the car, and Quinn can be on her way."

"What if Blaine's dad asks what was wrong with the car?" Puck asks.

"Just be rude. Say it's none of his business, and you have a lot of other stops to make tonight so you have to go."

"Rude I can do."

"Blaine and I will be hiding in your backseat by then, so you can just get in your car and go." Kurt turns to Quinn, looking serious. "If at any point during this operation you feel like you need to be removed from the house — if they find holes in your background story, or they somehow recognize you — send a 911 message to Puck and we'll have him extract you early. Got it?"

"Got it," she nods.

"I think that's it." Kurt rolls up the blueprint carefully as Puck notices the TV behind us.

"Ooh, I love _Elf_," he says excitedly. "And it's at the best part, too. Do we have time to order a couple of pizzas, you think? Freaking starving."

"Sure, just make one of them plain." Kurt turns back to me, looking a little unsure. "So."

"So," I echo back.

"That's the plan. What do you think?"

I shake my head fondly. "I think you're the single most interesting kid in all of Ohio," I tell him, and I swear his smile could light the room.

* * *

><p>It's dark outside by the time we arrive on my parents' street. I direct Puck to park his car in front of the Olsens' house — Mr. Olsen holds a poker tournament every Sunday evening, and no one will notice an extra car at the curb. Puck kills the lights, and the three of us don our ski masks and gloves before exiting the car. I take the lead, walking carefully down the road and keeping an eye out for witnesses. It's just after dinner, though, and the neighbors seem to be otherwise occupied.<p>

We reach the hedges that form the border to my parents' property and pause, waiting. After a few minutes, headlights appear down the road, and we crouch behind the hedges. The car pulls to a stop in front of the Hendersons' house. Quinn gets out, smoothing down her peacoat before squaring her shoulders and striding toward my house. As she passes, Puck whispers loudly, "Hell yeah, baby, how much for one night?" and she daintily raises her middle finger without glancing our way. She draws nearer to the front porch, and at this point I'm pretty sure my heart is about to beat out of my chest.

Kurt lets out a shaky breath beside me. Is he nervous? He seemed so calm earlier. I reach down, feeling in the dark for his hand and squeezing it. We watch as my mother opens the door and peers at Quinn curiously. I wish I could hear their conversation. It's only a few seconds before Mom ushers Quinn into the house and shuts the door.

"It worked," Puck says admiringly. "Not bad, Fabray."

We creep cautiously down the driveway, staying low and trying to avoid any snow that might crunch underfoot. The path to the rose bushes is mercifully cleared, and I lead Kurt and Puck to the study window. The window is cracked slightly. Kurt raises his eyebrows, but I shake my head quickly. I can hear my father inside, humming while he works. We stay perfectly still, trying not to make a sound. Finally, there's the telltale footsteps of my mother approaching.

"Harold!" she hisses. "Constance Morrow's _granddaughter _is here!"

"Who's Constance Morrow?" he asks, sounding bored.

"_You_ know, the rich old lady who lives in the estate on St. Pierre!"

"Mrs. Morrow? I didn't know her name was Constance."

"Well neither did I, but as I said, her granddaughter is here. Come be sociable, please."

"Cece, I really need to work on this."

"I just set out some tea and butterscotch cookies."

"I'll be right in," he says at once.

Kurt catches my eye, mouthing _Almond cookies? _I shrug. Sometimes even my parents aren't completely predictable.

We wait together, hunching over Puck's cell phone. After what feels like eternity, it lights up with a new message: _Mission is a go. Also, tell Blaine to get me the recipe for these cookies, because damn._

"Last chance to chicken out," Puck whispers.

I hook my fingers under the window, sliding it up soundlessly. "Slippers?" I breathe. Kurt presses a pair into my hand, looking anxious. I hoist myself onto the sill and wink at them both before disappearing inside.


	11. Chapter 11

_As you may have noticed, there is a new and improved summary! Congratulations to Sinkwriter, who won the contest and will receive a H2$ Playbill and a fanfic._

_I've been horrible about responding to reviews lately, but I promise to do better. You are all so sweet, you deserve a response._

_This chapter is dedicated to Brandon Spangler, a sweet soul and fellow gleek who lost his life far too young on December 30th. Please take a moment to wish him peace, and send strength to his family and beloved fiancée._

_Many, many thanks to Cathedral Carver for her beta skills and unparalleled awesomeness._

* * *

><p>The three of us huddle together in my father's study, sliding the window almost shut so that my parents won't feel a cold draft in the parlor. Once we're all wearing our big fuzzy slippers, we disperse to search the room. There's no sign of the cell phone. I check my dad's desk drawer just in case, but it's not there.<p>

Puck lifts up his hands, miming walking with his fingers, then pretending to eat a sandwich. I look over at Kurt, who is twisting his lips, trying not to laugh. _Kitchen_? I mouth, and Puck shrugs and nods, disappointed that his sign language isn't catching on.

I go first, tiptoeing into the hallway and listening to my mother telling Quinn about their _very handsome and eligible_ son, Blaine. Kurt waggles his eyebrows at me and I grin before heading into the kitchen. The counter is unusually cluttered — Mom must have hurried to get the cookies and tea prepared — so it takes a few minutes to check the room for the phone. I'm nearly finished searching when I hear a frantic rustling sound. I look up, and Kurt is pulling Puck away from the counter, just as Puck is shoveling more butterscotch cookies into his mouth. I lean against the island, laughing silently at them both. When Kurt looks over at me, I mouth _Criminal_? He just rolls his eyes and urges Puck toward the dining room.

I watch them go, amused. And I wait. Because if the cell phone is not in the study or the kitchen, I know it must be upstairs. There's no reason for my parents to have left it in the dining room or the living room. As I suspected, Kurt and Puck return to the kitchen shortly, and I gesture toward the stairs silently. Kurt turns and gives a significant look to Puck, who nods and heads back to the study.

I can hear my mother's voice from the parlor as Kurt and I creep toward the stairs. "So tell me, Penelope," she says, "after all this time, why did you choose to reestablish a relationship with your grandmother now? If I may be so bold as to ask?"

There's a long pause, and Kurt and I lock eyes, waiting nervously.

"I left home," she says at last. "I finally decided that enough was enough, and that my parents' treatment of me was unacceptable."

An audible gasp comes from my mother, and in my mind I can see her leaning forward, eager for details. "What did they _do_?"

"They never accepted the fact that I'm gay."

If I thought the last pause was long, then this one seems interminable. I look at Kurt, mouthing, _Quinn's gay_? He shakes his head in response, looking as confused as I am.

"Don't get me wrong, my parents love me," Quinn continues. "I'm their only child, and they've given me every material item I could ever want. All I've ever _really_ wanted, though, was their acceptance. I was tired of my mother's suggestions that it was a phase, and my father's coldness toward my girlfriend."

"Well..." Mom's voice sounds shaken. "Certainly, they must have needed time to adjust."

"I came out to them over a year ago. And the signs were there much earlier, if they'd thought to look. Anyway, one day it just got to be too much, and I left. I called up Grandmother and told her everything. She was terribly upset, and said that she'd raised her daughter better than that. She invited me to come live with her, and... here we are."

Kurt is beckoning to me, gesturing to the stairs. As much as I want to stay and hear my parents' response to Quinn, he's right. Time is slipping away. We climb the stairs together slowly, careful to avoid the squeaky steps. Once we've reached the second floor, I head to my bedroom first. The bedside lamp is on, illuminating my cell phone where it sits on the nightstand. Triumphantly, I tiptoe across the room and grab it, spinning around to show Kurt.

He's not looking at me, though. He's standing just inside the doorway, gazing at the room sadly. I look around, trying to figure out what's upsetting him, before making my way back to him. "Kurt?" I whisper. "Are you all right?"

He smiles weakly. "I'm fine. It's just... there are a lot of memories in this room." His cheeks flush as he looks at the bed, and I draw a breath.

"Oh. Did we... here?"

"Our first time," he says softly. Then he adds, "And other times, too, but the _first_ time is just... well, you know."

"I don't, actually."

He sighs. "Right. Oh, hey, you found your phone."

"I did."

"That's good." He doesn't sound terribly excited, so I have to ask.

"Tonight wasn't about the phone, was it?"

"No," he admits. "Not really. Although I did miss texting with you."

"So why the big production?"

He makes his way over to the bed, sitting down with a shrug. "When you and I were together, we used to go get coffee at the Lima Bean almost every day. We'd hang out at my house, and we'd spend a lot of time at Rob's apartment."

"And?"

"Don't you see?" He looks up at me searchingly. "Now it's the second time around, and we're back in all our old haunts, and... I just want to make sure that if I end up falling for you, that I'm falling for you — not who you used to be."

"I don't understand. You're trying to take me out of our old settings? But didn't you just say that we... _spent time together_ here, too?" I ask, blushing a little.

"It's not about the setting as much as it's about the memories."

"But I don't have any memories of you here."

"Right. That's why I was trying to create a new one."

A warmth blooms in my chest as I look at him. He's tried to play tonight off like a _Mission Impossible_ movie, but try as he might, he's still just a silly romantic. "You wanted this to be a bonding experience." He tilts his head in acknowledgement. "You totally got this whole breaking-and-entering idea from a movie, didn't you."

"No," he says, a little too quickly.

"Did so."

"I _did not_." I squint at him hard, until he mumbles, "I got it from an old Nancy Drew book of my mom's."

I look up at the ceiling, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. "You're adorable."

"Stop making fun of me." He's pouting, sticking out his lower lip in the most alluring way.

I take a step toward him, and he inhales sharply. "Kurt…"

"Blaine?"

"I'm going to kiss you now."

His mouth falls open. "You're going—"

"To kiss you now." It's all I can think about. He's so damned beautiful, there's no way I can spend another moment without touching him. "Unless you want me to stop."

"No," he whispers. "I don't want you to stop."

"Thank god." I take another step, and—

The floorboard under my foot gives a loud creak.

_Oh, shit._

I step back at once, and it creaks again.

We both freeze. Kurt looks as terrified as I feel. We don't even breathe as we listen, hoping no one downstairs noticed the sound. But I've never been that lucky. Slowly, my dad's voice grows louder.

"I swear I heard something," he's saying, and I can hear him approaching the stairs.

"Wait!" Quinn calls out, sounding panicked. "I still need to tell you secrets about my family... My grandmother had my mother out of wedlock!"

Mom adds, "Harold, you can't leave. We're in the middle of a conversation."

"Look, I'll be right back," Dad says. "I just want to check upstairs and make sure everything's all right."

I turn and gape at Kurt. "What do we do?" I whisper nervously.

His eyes are wide, his mouth set in a grim line. "Does Anna still do the laundry on Mondays?" It doesn't register at first, what he's asking, because I'm fixating on the slow, heavy footfalls of my father heading up the stairs. "Blaine, _focus_. Does Anna still do the laundry on Mondays?"

"What? Um... Mondays, yeah."

He stands and grabs my hand, dragging me over to my bathroom. We step on two more squeaky floorboards in our haste, and I can hear my dad speed up as he mounts the stairs. Kurt closes the bathroom door quietly behind us, then turns to me, breathing shallowly. "Wait to see if I'm okay before you go."

"Go where?"

"Puck's waiting outside in case he needs to pull us out."

"But wait, go where?"

He doesn't answer. He just backs up to the laundry chute in the wall of my bathroom, squeezes his eyes closed nervously, and drops out of sight. I dart over in horror, trying to look down the dark chute. What if Anna did the laundry early this week? What if there aren't any piles of clothes to cushion Kurt's fall?

"Go!" comes a whisper from below, just as I hear Dad reach my bedroom doorway. And then there's no time to think, no time to hesitate, no time for _anything_, and I'm free-falling down a laundry chute like some absurd version of Alice in Wonderland. I land with my face in one of my dad's old undershirts, dazed, trying to picture Kurt as the White Rabbit, and he's tugging at my arm. "Come on!" he breathes harshly.

I scramble to my feet and climb out of the laundry bin, following him toward the set of windows near the rose bushes. I can just barely make out the shadows of Puck's boots as he paces back and forth outside. He crouches down when he sees Kurt push one of the windows open.

"You first," Kurt whispers.

"Me? No, you first."

"You won't be able to reach the window unless I give you a boost," he insists. Before I can argue, he leans down to grab me around the thighs, and lifts me up toward the open window. Puck reaches in and grabs my outstretched arms, pulling me out into the snow. He goes back for Kurt, and I take a little solace in the fact that Kurt has to jump a little to reach Puck's grasp.

"Let's go," Puck whispers once we've closed the basement window. The three of us hunch over, racing toward the street. Kurt keeps sliding across the snow-covered driveway until he realizes he's forgotten to take the house slippers off. I'm laughing so hard at him I can't even breathe.

We reach Puck's car quickly. He pops open the trunk and pulls out a set of generic mechanics coveralls, slipping them on over his clothes. "I'll be back," he says, grabbing Quinn's spare key and jogging over to her car.

I turn to Kurt, and he's got his head turned up toward the stars, laughing silently. "I can't believe you almost got us caught," he says.

"Me? You're the one who almost wiped out on the snow back there."

"Well, you're the one who wanted to take a nap in the laundry bin."

"You're the one who took burglary tips from a Nancy Drew book."

We're both laughing now, our breaths making clouds in the cold air. "Yeah, well, you're—"

He doesn't get to finish that thought, as I lean in and kiss him. God, we're _kissing_, and it's everything I ever wanted. His lips are even softer than they look — _does he moisturize them? Is that it?_ — but his kisses are firm, confident. He's done this before, countless times, and I hope I'm not too inexperienced for him. I wrap my arms around his waist, and his hands curl behind my neck, his fingernails scratching lightly against my scalp. He breathes out through his mouth shakily, and I steal the breath from him, leaning in to kiss him again.

"Blaine," he murmurs. "We should get in the car. People might see us."

I want to argue with him, but he's right — the O'Tooles wouldn't hesitate to call the police over two boys kissing in public. Kurt yanks open the door to the back seat and I dive in, reaching up for him. In an instant he's there, looming over me. He leans down and licks my bottom lip, which should be weird but is unbearably hot. He whimpers and does it again, and again.

He's _tasting_ me.

_God_.

I grab the back of his head and pull him down hard, opening my mouth and letting our tongues touch tentatively. It's like I gave a signal without even realizing it. Suddenly he's lying fully on top of me, his tongue making probing swipes through my mouth, his hands rubbing across my chest, his thigh pressing hard between my legs. I'm just trying to keep up, hoping that my eagerness will overcome my lack of skill. His hands travel back up to my head, cradling it gently as he cards his fingers through my hair.

The frenzy fades after a minute, and we're kissing slowly, languidly. I wonder how many times we did this in the past. I'm envious that Kurt must remember them all, because this? This is heaven.

He pulls back after a car goes by, and breathes shakily. "We're not supposed to be doing this yet."

"Why not?" I whine, seeking out his mouth again. He leans away, just out of my reach.

"We made a deal, remember?"

"Yeah, that we'd try dating again. Don't people kiss when they date?"

"Blaine..."

"I mean, granted, most of my knowledge about dating comes from watching the CW, but still—"

He laughs, leaning back down to kiss a path along the side of my neck. "You're not supposed to be putting all your eggs in one basket," he murmurs, his tongue darting out to lick behind my ear. "You're supposed to date other people, too."

"I am, though."

"You are what?"

"Dating other people."

"What?"

"I have a date with a guy tomorrow night. So see? I _am_ following the deal." I smile broadly, waiting for him to resume kissing me, but he lifts himself up on his elbows, looking down at me inscrutably.

"You have a date."

"Yeah."

"Tomorrow night."

"_Yes_. Now, can we get back to—"

"We made our deal, like, twelve hours ago. And you already have a date?" He's irritated, I realize. How can he be irritated, when I'm following the rules_ he made_?

"You told me to go out with other people," I remind him defensively.

"I know I did."

"If you've changed your mind, then say so. I'll call the guy and cancel our—" I stop, sighing. "Wait, no. I don't have his number. But I just won't go. Say the word, and the deal's off."

"No." He shakes his head. "No, you should go. On your date. With the guy. That's the whole point of the deal." He sits up, looking very young, suddenly. "It's been a while since Puck left. I wonder if everything's going okay."

"Kurt—"

"Don't," he says quickly. "I'm trying to do what's right, here. Please, just... just don't."

Sighing, I sit up too. I don't know what to say. I don't want to go out with Sebastian. I want to pull Kurt back on top of me and make out with him for the next hour, or day, or rest of my life. Why is he making this so difficult?

Puck finally comes back to the car, flicking us a thumbs-up as he starts the engine and pulls away from the curb. On the drive back to Rob's apartment, he regales us with the details of how skillfully he impersonated a mechanic, and how Kurt's dad should really hire him, because he was that convincing. Kurt doesn't reply. He's looking out his window, and even though we're sitting side by side, it's like I can feel him slipping away from me.

We pull up outside the building. I don't make a move to get out, because I'm still waiting for something, _anything_, from Kurt.

He finally looks over at me. "Are we still on for the Lima Bean tomorrow morning?" he asks hoarsely.

"Of course we're still on. It'll be the highlight of my whole day."

He smiles a little, and I lean in to kiss his cheek. He lets me, which is something, I guess.

I get out of the car and wander back to Rob's apartment, feeling lost. How did I manage to mess this up?

Fifteen minutes later, while I'm preparing a cup of tea, my cell phone dings with a new text message. I dart over in relief, anxious to see what Kurt has written, but to my surprise, it's a message from my father: _No need for the charade, Blaine, we would have left the cell outside if you didn't want to see us. I hope you're all right. We love you._

I lay in bed for a long time, the familiar tickle of insomnia keeping me awake. Finally I wander out into the living room, curling up on the couch with my face pressed into Kurt's pillow, his quilt from last night covering me. I'm surrounded by Kurt as I lie here alone.

Sleep doesn't come.


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: I know I gave a spoiler about a conversation Blaine would have with someone in the next chapter, but this one got so insanely long that I broke it into two parts so that I could post something sooner. That conversation will happen in the next chapter (13) instead._

_A lot of people have asked how many chapters this story will end up being. I still have no idea, but thinking ahead to all the things that are going to happen, I'll say bare minimum 25 chapters total._

_Also, Cathedral Carver is my haven._

* * *

><p>Kurt and I never made firm plans on when we would meet at the Lima Bean, so I arrive extra-early. I get to watch the breakfast crowd file through, blinking their eyes blearily and cradling their coffees in their hands like lifelines. A few curious stares are directed my way — one perky-looking cheerleader even waves at me — but for the most part I'm able to sit in the corner and observe.<p>

It's so important that I got here early. Because I want, I _need_ to see Kurt's reaction when he walks in the door and sees me. I want to know if he's still in this because he wants to be, or because he thinks he has to be. I nurse my coffee slowly, trying to make it last.

He wanders just after eight o'clock. His gaze is fixed on the floor, and it takes a minute before he notices that I'm here. When he does, his face brightens instantly. I can feel my heart hiccup in my chest as he comes over to greet me. He opens his mouth to say something, but I'm out of my seat already, my arms wrapping around him and my face smushed up against his shoulder. He freezes for a moment before pressing a palm against my back, laughing a little. "Missed me?" he asks breathlessly.

"Mmm." I inhale deeply. "You smell like my couch."

"Hey!" he objects. "I showered!"

"No, I mean, my couch smells like you. I slept on it last night."

I can feel the tension start to drain from his shoulders, and he squeezes me once before letting go. "I'm going to get some coffee. You want a refill?"

"Sure."

There's a spring in his step as he heads back toward the counter. I like knowing that I put it there.

When he returns, he sets down our coffees and a plate of mini-scones before raising one eyebrow daintily. "Okay, so tell me about this date of yours tonight." My surprise must show on my face, because he adds, "Easier just to address the elephant in the room so we can move past it and have a nice morning together. Don't you think?"

I shrug and nod at the same time, feeling stupid. "What do you want to know about him?"

"Oh god, nothing. Don't tell me about the guy. My imagination is bad enough. Where is he taking you?"

"A gay bar in West Lima," I say, taking a sip from my coffee. "It's called—"

"Scandals," he finishes. His eyes are wide. I feel like I'm missing something. "You're going to _Scandals_ with him?"

"Yeah, you know it?"

"I do."

"Is it dangerous?"

Kurt shakes his head. "No, it's... no. I've been there several times. As long as you keep a level head about you, it's fine."

"Shouldn't be a problem," I say. "I don't drink." He sputters into his coffee cup, and I stop and stare. "I drink?"

"Not regularly," he says, dabbing his chin with a napkin. "But it's been known to happen. Once at Scandals, in fact."

So I _have_ been there before. Sebastian was telling the truth. "Well, I won't drink tonight, that's for sure."

"You'll have to put aside the gentlemanly exterior, then."

I cock my head at him. "Gentlemen don't need to drink alcohol."

"Yes, but you're assuming you'd have to place an order to get a drink. You're meeting this guy at the bar, I assume?" At my nod, he continues. "He'll probably have a drink waiting for you when you arrive. Could you actually turn it down, without feeling like you were being rude?"

"You do know me well," I say, rubbing my neck uncomfortably.

He leans forward earnestly. "It's fine to politely say no, Blaine. Tell him you don't want to get busted for underage drinking. Tell him you want to have a clear head when you drive home later. Hell, tell him you're on medication that can't be mixed with alcohol. And if he offers you something non-alcoholic, find an excuse not to take it."

"Why?"

"Because it could have roofies in it," he says. "You never drink anything the bartender didn't hand you himself. _Never_."

"Oh... okay. What else?"

"If a guy asks if you want to accompany him to the bathroom, don't."

"Why not? He might feel unsafe going alone. It's a perfectly innocent—"

"It means he wants you to blow him in the bathroom," Kurt says bluntly, and I gape at him. "Or sometimes it means he wants to fu—"

"Okay!" I interrupt, my cheeks burning. "Okay, I get it. Don't drink anything, don't go anywhere with anyone. Anything else I should do?"

He picks at a scone. "Have fun." I snort at that, but his face is serious. "I mean it. There's something very liberating about going to a gay bar. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's not anything like the Castro District. We're still in Ohio, and even the gays here are prone to wearing flannel shirts and baggy jeans. But... " He shrugs one shoulder. "You can dance with another guy and not worry about someone hurling insults at you, or worse. There's not exactly a lot of places around here where that's the case."

"I wish you could come." I start to smile as an idea blooms. "Hey. You could just happen to show up there."

"Nah."

"Really, though. You could waltz into the bar and rescue me from my dumb date—"

"Blaine, I'm not doing this to punish you," Kurt says gently. "I really believe that it's important."

I sigh, taking a sip of my coffee. "So this bar. Scandals. Did we go there together a lot?"

"No, just once." He's rotating his coffee cup, and I frown.

"You said you'd been there several times, though."

"The first time was with you. The other times were with a guy I was dating a few months ago."

It seems more real, suddenly. He's really dated someone else, more than once. He's... experienced.

Oh god. Maybe that's what this is really about. Maybe he wants me to be more experienced.

"How many other guys have you dated?"

"Uh... three. Just a couple of dates with two of them. The other one lasted a bit longer."

"What was he like?" I ask blankly.

"He was..." His eyes grow large and pensive, and I hate that he looks this lovely when he's thinking about another guy. "He really cared about me. There was just a lot of baggage between us."

"Because of the attack?"

"No, no. I've known him for years."

"So I knew him too?"

"Actually, yes. You did."

I swallow hard, dreading the answer to my question but needing to ask it anyway. "Did you love him?"

"What? No!" He looks startled. "No. God, Blaine, no. It wasn't like that. To be honest, I didn't even realize we were dating through most of it." I furrow my brows at him quizzically, and he sighs. "He contacted me a few months after you'd woken up. It was right around the time that I realized your memory wasn't going to magically come back, and it... well, let's just say it was a low point for me."

"So he took advantage of you," I fume. "He saw that you were in a vulnerable place, and—"

"No, he'd heard about the attack, and he reached out to find out if I was okay. The timing was a complete coincidence. By then, most of my friends had gone off to college, and you were off living your life oblivious to my existence, and I was left feeling so isolated. I'd just sit at home all day long, missing you and my friends. And suddenly along came this guy who wanted to hang out with me. At first we'd meet up once or twice a week. After a couple of months had passed, I was seeing him almost every day." He runs a pale hand along the side of his neck. "I really thought he was just trying to be a friend to me. But as it turned out, he'd thought we were dating the whole time and taking things really slow."

"When did you catch on?"

"When he tried to kiss me." His hand stills, and I watch his nails dig into the skin of his neck slightly. "We were sitting side by side on his couch, watching a movie, and for some reason I thought he was just leaning over me to get the remote or something, and then he was _right there_, breathing an inch from my face, and I freaked out."

"Why?"

"Just... like I said, baggage." He finally returns his hand to the table, but I can see a row of little red crescent shapes left on his neck. The marks start to fade slowly as he continues. "I pushed him off me and ran out the door. The rest of the night, he kept calling and texting me, trying to figure out what he'd done wrong. He was so confused and upset. The next morning I called him back, and we talked things through. He was pretty embarrassed, and I felt bad for having led him on."

"It wasn't your fault," I object, but he shakes his head.

"I think it probably was. I knew that he'd liked me in the past, and I shouldn't have been as affectionate with him as I was. I could snuggle up to Rachel and Mercedes without it meaning anything, but it's different with a guy. Especially a gay guy."

"He still should have been positive that you were on the same page. So was that the last time you saw him, then?"

He blinks at me. "When he tried to kiss me?"

"Yeah."

"No, we started dating after that."

I can feel my jaw drop. "You _what_?"

"We started da—"

"Why? Why on earth would you date a guy that made you feel physically threatened?"

Kurt takes a long sip from his cup, watching me carefully. "Blaine," he finally says, "you don't know what—"

"No, yeah, I'm sure it was just _super romantic_, being with him. I bet you had a blast. Going to movies, sharing a bag of popcorn, flinching whenever he came too close to you—"

"It wasn't like that. Not all the time."

"Right, no, most of the time he was the Prince Charming you'd always dreamed about—"

"I _had_ a Prince Charming," he snaps, his eyes flashing with anger. "I had one, and he forgot me. Do you have any idea what that's like?"

"Kurt—"

"No, you have no idea. One day I was within arm's reach of graduation, with plans to finally get out of Lima and move to New York City, with the boy I loved more than anything at my side. The boy who'd surprised me with a ring made out of gum wrappers and told me he wanted to be mine forever. And I believed him. I believed the dream. I let myself hope, and that's not something that ever came naturally to me. We went to a jeweler in Columbus together, and we had promise rings made, and we cried when we exchanged them. And you never cry, Blaine."

"I know," I sigh.

"We searched online for apartments in the city, and you gave me full creative control over decorating. We researched Manhattan bars with open mic nights, theaters with open casting calls. We _dreamed_. Up until someone hated us enough to take a crowbar and—" He breaks off, pressing his fist to his mouth.

I feel like such a jerk. "Kurt—"

"And I woke up," he continues, his voice cracking, "and you were in a coma. Everyone around us, all of our families and friends, they were all praying. But I don't believe in God, I don't. I was so helpless. At first I visited you in the hospital every day. Then it became too hard to keep up with my schoolwork, and Dad needed help in the shop to make ends meet, so it was every other day. Then once a week. Then one day I went to the hospital and you were gone. Nobody would tell me what had happened, and I thought—" He shakes his head hard, as if reminding himself that he'd been wrong. "So I called your parents' house, and they said you'd woken up. And that you were doing just fine. And that you'd forgotten me. Do you get it now?"

"I'm—"

"I let myself dream," he interrupts, "and you forgot I even existed. You went on with your life, and I kept wearing a promise ring that said _Always yours_."

I nod miserably. "I'm sorry."

"You don't get to judge me for how I tried to move on, Blaine."

"You're right. I'm sorry. I had no right."

He's breathing deeply and slowly, like he's trying to keep tears at bay. "He and I didn't date for long after that, anyway. Just a week or so."

I'm almost afraid to ask for details, but I can't help myself. "What ended it?"

"He told me he loved me." He smiles without humor. "Isn't that awful? He told me he loved me, and I told him I couldn't see him anymore. Because I didn't love him, and I knew I could never feel anything for him like what I'd felt for you. After that, I went out with two more guys, and it was more of the same. They never measured up to you. I realized no one ever would."

Holding my breath, I reach across the table and take his hands tentatively. He lets me intertwine our fingers until they look like winding vines of ivy. "I'm going to go on this date tonight," I murmur. "Because it's important to you. But at the end of the night, I'm going to call you, so that you'll be the last voice I hear before I fall asleep. And I'll go on a couple more dates, if that's what you want. But that's it." I squeeze his fingers gently. "After that, I'll need you to accept that I'm not in this because of obligation, or because you're the only gay guy I know. I'm in it because you and I, we make each other dream. And that's not something you let slip away."

He swallows thickly. "I don't know if I can let myself hope again."

"It's okay," I promise. "I can hope enough for the both of us."


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Many thanks for all the lovely support, and my love to CC for her insights._

* * *

><p>Kurt calls me that night, about an hour before I'm supposed to meet Sebastian and his friends at Scandals.<p>

"Hey," I mumble, chewing on my thumbnail. "Please tell me you're calling to say the deal's off."

"Are you nervous?" he asks, and I huff out a laugh.

"I've been staring at a pile of my clothes for the past two hours," I admit. "How am I supposed to know what to wear to this place?"

"Oh, honey, choosing your attire is my job. What are your options?""

I clear my throat, grinning like an idiot. He called me _honey_. "Well, most of my wardrobe is back at my parents' house. But there's still a decent selection here. Couple of pairs of black pants, some khakis, three pairs of jeans, a bunch of button-ups, some cardigans-"

"Seriously?" he interrupts. "Those are the descriptors you're giving me to work with? I need _details_, Blaine. What _kinds_ of jeans do you have there?"

"Um... denim ones?"

He sucks in air slowly, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. "Do you have your dark bootcut jeans?"

I pick through the pile. "Uh, yeah, there's... wait, no. This pair is too long for me."

"Oh, those must be mine. I'd wondered where they'd gone. Keep looking."

I check in the back of one of the drawers. "Ah! Okay. Yes."

"Good. Now, describe the button-ups."

"There's four of them. White, red, gray, blue-and-white pinstriped."

"Red would make you look like you're on the prowl, but white would make you look too innocent. Pinstripes look like business attire. Go with the gray. Is it the Ralph Lauren?"

I peek at the tag. "Yup."

"Perfect. Your shoulders look hot in that one. Don't button it all the way up to the collar, though. What about shoes?"

"I only have my snow boots or black loafers to choose from, so yeah, I'm going with the loafers." I heave out a pathetic sigh, sitting down on the bed. "You sure you don't want to come with me? It's karaoke night. Didn't we sing together in glee club, back in the day?"

"We did," he says, sounding a little wistful. "I miss that."

"I bet they'll have two microphones."

"Bet they will."

"Come."

"Nope. Have fun. You'll call me after?"

"Try and stop me."

* * *

><p>Scandals isn't too hard to find. The building isn't quite what I expected, though. From the outside it looks more like a pancake house than anything else. I climb out of my car, reach into the backseat to retrieve my jacket, and—<p>

And suddenly I can see the faint background of the bar in the distance, through a haze of confusion and sticky drunken memory. I'm lying in the backseat of my old station wagon, Kurt half on top of me as I'm clutching at him and wanting him, _wanting him so bad_ and—

And the vision disappears, in an instant. I spin around, trying to recreate the moment, but it's gone. Slipping my jacket on with a sigh, I steel myself and head toward the building.

I can do this. What's the worst that could happen?

Sebastian is waiting for me just inside the doorway. He smiles appreciatively when he sees me, and slips a flat ID card into my hand. "My name is Waldo Warbler?" I hiss, reading the fake driver's license. "From Waldoville, North Carolina?"

"Relax," he whispers. "It's just a formality. The bouncer never even reads them."

Sure enough, when we hand our IDs to the bearded man at the entrance to the bar, he barely glances at us before nodding and turning back to his crossword puzzle. I follow Sebastian inside, hang my jacket in the long coatrack, and look around curiously. There are about thirty men here and, as Kurt predicted, most of them are wearing jeans and flannel shirts. A few of the men glance over at us before rolling their eyes and whispering to each other. I can feel my cheeks burning as we head over to the bar.

"Vodka tonic for me," Sebastian says to the bartender. "And my dashing companion here will have—"

"A Shirley Temple," I blurt out. "With extra cherries."

His smile falters, but he recovers quickly. "Why don't we get you something stronger?" he suggests. "Something to help you relax?"

"Can't drink alcohol. I'm taking medicine that can't... driving and underaged allergies..." God, I'm the worst liar. He just shrugs, and we take our drinks from the bartender.

"To second chances," Sebastian says warmly, clinking our glasses.

I smile weakly, taking a small sip of my drink. It's strange, being out with someone who isn't Kurt. It's not _bad_, necessarily. Sebastian is just as handsome as I remembered him, and I'm digging the atmosphere of this place. I fish a cherry out of my drink and chew it slowly, looking around the room. Karaoke has already begun. A middle-aged guy in a trucker hat is belting out "Girls Just Want to Have Fun," which seems like an odd choice, considering the demographic of his audience. I pop another cherry in my mouth, nodding my head along to the beat.

"You know, I can tie a cherry stem with my tongue," Sebastian murmurs, moving closer to me. I can't help freezing, and he frowns. "God, loosen up, Blaine. I'm not about to date-rape you."

"I'm sorry," I murmur bashfully. "I'm just new at this. Dating, I mean."

"Right... I forgot. It's okay." He rubs my knee affectionately.

As if I weren't already uncomfortable enough, I notice that Sebastian's two Dalton friends are out on the dance floor, watching us. The short guy with the mole — Morgan, I think — is doing a funny taekwondo inspired dance to the music. But the big blond guy, Lawrence, is just swaying off-tempo while he steals glances at me and Sebastian, his eyes narrowed. "What's the deal with your friend?"

Sebastian looks over at them and smirks, as Lawrence glares harder and Morgan laughs and waves to us. "He's harmless."

"Doesn't look harmless."

"He might be a little jealous. We tend to hook up when I'm not dating anyone else."

"So you brought him along on our _date_?" I ask, aghast, as Lawrence abandons dancing altogether, standing stock still and staring.

"I needed backup for my songs tonight. Besides, we all started drinking an hour ago. Once the liquor wears off, it won't be so awkward. I promise." He smiles charmingly at me, and for a moment I let myself wonder what it would be like to have a guy like Sebastian for a boyfriend. Kind of exciting, probably. He seems like he gets off on danger, on breaking the rules. He's attractive, and he's interested in me.

Am I interested in _him_, though? If I am, then why does he leave me feeling so tense and uneasy? Am I letting my growing feelings for Kurt push a perfectly nice guy out of the running?

The Cyndi Lauper track ends, and the crowd breaks into applause for the singer as he steps off the platform. Next up is a younger guy, probably closer to our age. He's burly and baby-faced, with a tough expression on his face. I'm expecting Springsteen, maybe, or Bon Jovi. So I'm surprised when the first few notes of a Cary Brothers song fill the air. He closes his eyes and leans into the microphone to sing.

_Wish enough, wise man'll tell you a lie  
><em>_Window broke, torn up screams  
><em>_Who'd have thought that you'd dream  
><em>_Of a single tragic scene  
><em>_I just wanna sing a song with you  
><em>_I just wanna take it off of you_

_Cause Blue Eyes  
><em>_You are all that I need  
><em>_Cause Blue Eyes  
><em>_You're the sweet to my mean_

Sebastian is saying something to me, but I can't take my eyes off the singer. He sounds so soulful, almost pained. With every word he sings, I think of Kurt. How his striking blue eyes were the first thing I noticed about him when we met at the coffee shop. How I couldn't quite describe their precise shade of blue.

_Fess it up, dot on the palm of your hand_  
><em>I can help you to stand<em>  
><em>Saved it up for this dance<em>  
><em>Tell me all the things you can<br>__I just wanna sing a song with you_  
><em>I just wanna be the one that's true<br>_  
><em>Cause blue eyes<em>  
><em>You're the secret I keep—<em>

"Hey," Sebastian says, louder, and I tear my eyes away from the karaoke stage. He's looking at me strangely. "What gives?"

"What?"

"We're on a date, and you're ogling the Michelin Man up on the stage."

"No, I... I like his song. That's all."

He shifts his jaw, glancing back at the singer. "Do you want to dance?"

"Dance?"

"Yeah, it's this new craze that's sweeping the nation. Rhythmic movement to a soundtrack." He glances down appraisingly, adding, "I bet you're pretty good at rhythmic movement."

"I..." What can I say? I can't exactly claim to be allergic to dancing. Nodding reluctantly, I follow him out onto the dance floor. There are a few other couples swaying together. Thankfully, Lawrence and Morgan seem to have disappeared for the moment. Sebastian's arms wind around my waist, pulling me close. I hold onto his shoulders awkwardly as we start to move.

And there it is again — the tension. It's never been there between me and Kurt. Sebastian is pulling at me, urging me closer, but I've locked my elbows to keep a reasonable distance between us. "See?" he asks softly. "This isn't so bad, is it?" He squeezes my waist before sliding his palms down to my hips slowly. They don't seem to be stopping there, and their path is curving down backwards, and I'm panicking and thinking about what a gentleman is supposed to do in this situation—

And then, mercifully, I notice the men around us are clapping. The song is over. I pull back quickly, adding some overenthusiastic applause of my own. Sebastian joins in after a second's pause. The next number is called out, and his face brightens. "This is us," he says excitedly.

"Us?"

"Me, I mean. The guys are doing backup."

"I thought you said they couldn't carry a tune?"

"They can't. Luckily they're not the ones singing. Watch us?" His green eyes are intense.

"Sure, of course. I'll sit over at the bar so I have a good view." I retreat and perch on a barstool, reclaiming my drink and wondering if anyone could have roofied it during our thirty-second dance. The bartender is standing only a couple of feet away, though, and I doubt anyone would be so brazen. I sip the Shirley Temple as Sebastian and his friends get settled onstage, and take the opportunity to check out the rest of the Scandals patrons. Most of them are a lot older than us. They seem confident, sure of themselves. I wonder how they came to be that way, growing up in a place like Lima.

A few opening chords and a strong beat blare from the speakers, and the crowd goes wild. I can't help but laugh as Sebastian bursts into song, with Lawrence and Morgan dancing enthusiastically behind him.

_Young man, there's no need to feel down, I said  
><em>_Young man, pick yourself off the ground, I said  
>Young man, 'cause you're in a new town<em>  
><em>There's no need to be unhappy<em>

"Gimme a Bud Light, Rick," comes an amused voice nearby. "I'm gonna need it to get through yet another rendition of 'YMCA.'"

"One second, kid, have to mix up some daiquiris first. Be right with you."

I turn to look at the guy leaning against the bar, and am pleasantly surprised to see the "Blue Eyes" singer from earlier.

"Hey," I call over. He looks up at me and takes a sharp breath. "I really enjoyed your song."

He pauses. "Uh. Thanks."

"I loved how deeply you seemed to connect with it," I add. The guy turns away, looking back at the bartender with a tight jaw, and it occurs to me that he probably thinks I'm hitting on him. Oh, god, that's why he looks so displeased. I should make it clear that I'm not. "The lyrics totally spoke to me, too. I've been seeing this incredible guy, Kurt, who has the most gorgeous blue eyes—"

I don't get to finish that thought, as I'm pushed up against the bar hard, the guy's hand flat against my chest. His gaze is livid. "Do yourself a favor. Stop talking." I can hear the crowd chanting Y-M-C-A along with Sebastian, oblivious to the dangerous glint in the guy's eyes. The bartender notices, though, and leans over to shove at his shoulder.

"Take your beer and walk away, Dave. Don't make me call George over."

The guy — _Dave_ — pushes a little harder before letting me go. I breathe shakily as he stomps off, beer in hand.

"You all right, kid?" the bartender asks.

I nod quickly, picking my glass back up and trying to keep my hands from trembling. Sebastian is still belting out his song onstage, and Kurt's probably home safe in his bed, and all I can think about is the Sadie Hawkins dance, and the attack last year, and _if I'm not safe in a gay bar,_ _where exactly am I supposed to_ _go_?

I don't know how long I'm sitting there before I sense people standing around me.

"Well?" Sebastian asks. "What'd you think?"

"It was great," I reply, struggling to smile and knowing that I'm falling short. "You guys had the audience eating out of your hand."

Morgan shakes his head. "Nah, it was all Sebastian. We were just the go-go dancers behind him."

"I thought my form was quite good," Lawrence says stiffly.

They're laughing, the three of them, relaxed as can be. And me, I just need to get out of here. "I'm going to get some air," I tell Sebastian. "Keep an eye on my drink?"

He smiles quizzically. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just a bit warm. I'll be right back."

I make my way through the crowd toward the exit, not thinking of my jacket or the cold or anything but_ getting out, getting out, getting out_ until I'm gulping fresh, cold air. I lean over, my hands on my knees, and to my horror, when I straighten up, _he's_ there. He's standing to the side of the building, but when he sees me, he starts walking toward me slowly.

"I don't want any trouble." My hands are in the air at once, remembering the sharp pain of fists to the stomach, and grateful not to remember the crowbar to the skull. "I don't know what I did to offend you, but—"

"You lead a charmed life," he says softly. "That's what you did." Dave stops a few feet away, and looks toward the parking lot, still nursing his beer.

He doesn't look like he's about to attack me, but that doesn't mean anything. I can't let my guard down. "I have problems," I tell him. "You see this scar on my head? Last year—"

"I used to build model airplanes when I was a kid," he interrupts. "My dad helped me. Mom didn't have a lot of time or patience for me, but Dad was big into teaching me what men did, what men liked. I idolized him, you know? Always wanted his approval, and always got it. I played football and he'd come to every game. I wasn't always the best student or the best friend, but I've always been the best son I could be, for him." I just blink at him, confused, and he takes one step closer. "Used to hang the model airplanes we made on strings over my bed," he says, quieter. "Had to take them down a few months ago. They kept giving me ideas, when I'd see them hanging there."

My stomach hurts. It feels like as though he punched me after all.

"I'm sorry I pushed you," he continues. "I'm sorry for everything I've done. But you lead a charmed fucking life, man."

He throws the rest of his beer into a nearby trash bin and walks off toward the parking lot. I lose track of time out here, shivering in the cold, until the door opens again. Sebastian's friend Morgan is standing there, frowning at me. "What're you doing? It's freezing out, you're going to catch pneumonia or something."

"Just... been thinking." I wrap my arms around myself.

"Well, hurry up with your thinking. Sebastian wants to do a barbershop quartet or something, and god knows _I'm_ not gonna be the one to keep it on pitch."

I follow him inside, but the cold feeling doesn't go away. If anything, it grows stronger, until I'm shaking all over. Sebastian is grinning at me and holding up my glass — _do I need to worry that _he_ would roofie it_? — and Lawrence is watching me with an alarmed look, and god, I can't do this. I stumble over to them. "I'm not feeling well," I say. "I think I should go."

"Probably," Lawrence nods. "Yeah, probably you should go."

Sebastian puts a hand on my shoulder, looking concerned. "Are you sure? If you're sick, maybe you shouldn't get behind the wheel of your car." He gets up from his stool, though, leading me toward the exit, for which I'm incredibly grateful.

"No, yeah, I should be okay to drive."

He retrieves my jacket and helps me into it, then walks me to my car. His friends stay behind, and Dave is nowhere in sight, so it's just the two of us out here. His breaths make little clouds in the cold night air. "Can I see your phone for a second?" I hand it to him numbly and he fiddles with it for a minute before handing it back. "I just programmed my number in. I want you to text me when you get home, okay? So I don't have to worry about you."

He's different out here, away from everyone else. It's kind of nice. "Okay, I will." There's a terrifying moment when I think he's going to lean in and kiss me, but he just grips my shoulder again before turning and walking back inside.

* * *

><p>I get back to Rob's apartment and take a long, hot shower, trying in vain to wash off the unease of the night. Is this how dating is supposed to feel? Sticky and confusing? I try to assess how it went, how I felt about being out with Sebastian, but every time I close my eyes I see Dave's face, haunting and accusatory. After toweling off, I slip on a pair of pajamas. I shoot a quick text to Sebastian — <em>back, safe, thanks for tonight<em> — before grabbing Kurt's pillow off the couch and settling back in bed. I smile as I dial the one person I really want to talk to. He answers almost instantly.

"Hello?"

"Why, hello there," I say. He sighs, and it's like all of my tension melts away instantly. "You all right? What were you doing when I called?"

"Reading a tantalizing biography of Billie Holiday. Did you know that she—"

"I missed you." It's rude to interrupt, but I think he needs to know. "Tonight, at Scandals. I wished you were there with me." He makes the tiniest sound, almost a squeak, and I close my eyes. "You really thought I'd get swept off my feet by that guy, didn't you?"

"Had to prepare myself for the worst," he says after a pause.

"But why?"

"Because life tends to throw the worst at me."

I push my cheek deeper into the pillow. I like how it still smells like him. "When do I get to see you next?"

He's quiet for a long moment. "What are you doing on Friday?"

"Nothing..."

"How about I take the day off from work, and we can spend it together? Let me take you on a date. A proper one."

Smiling, I close my eyes. "You gonna bring me chocolate and roses?" I think of my closet shelf, suddenly, and feel a pang of longing.

"It's a surprise. Nothing fancy. Just an opportunity for us to get to know each other better."

"Sounds great." I can feel myself breathing more evenly, starting to drift off to sleep. "Even if we go out on a date on Friday," I murmur sleepily, "you're still going to meet me at the Lima Bean every morning, right?"

"Try and stop me."


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: Sorry for the re-upload, there was some ffnet glitch that kept people from being able to see it the first-time around._

_A million thanks to the four pinch-hitter betas who responded to my tumblr plea — **Bryanna**__, **Brianna**, __**Alicia**, and **Coco** — and all the others who replied as well. You know they're nice people when they're offering to beta at 2 in the morning! I've never had four different people look at my writing before, and while they all had marvelous comments, I couldn't take everyone's advice at once. I'm very appreciative of all of their insightful suggestions, though! As always, much love to **Cathedral Carver **and her gucky guckness._

* * *

><p>When we meet up at the Lima Bean on Tuesday morning, Kurt sets a small cardboard box on the table. I raise my eyebrows, waiting, and he smiles.<p>

"I ordered this online. It arrived yesterday." He turns the lid toward me so that I can see the title.

"_Getting to Know You_," I read aloud. "_A thousand and one conversation starters. Perfect for adult parties_." I look up at him. "Wait... adult parties? Like the ones where you put your name in a bowl, and—"

"Not _swingers' _parties," he interrupts, flushing. "It just means that some of the questions aren't suitable for children. My stepmom mentioned that her friend Debbie does a lot of internet dating, and that she uses these questions to weed out the weirdos."

"So you're trying to figure out if I'm a weirdo?" I tease.

Kurt rolls his eyes. "I'm trying to help us get to know one another better. We don't have to do it if you don't want to."

"No, no, I think it's a great idea. Let's try it out."

He opens the shrink-wrapped box and shuffles the cards while go up to the counter to pick up our coffees. By the time I return to our table, he's stacked the cards into two piles of about equal height. "So how should we do this?" he asks. "If I read a question to you, do I have to answer it too? Or just you?"

I shrug gamely. "I'm fine either way. Maybe we can play it by ear, see if the question inspires a conversation. Some are bound to be duds, right?"

"Right." He takes a sip of his coffee, and I watch as his pink tongue darts out to lick a drop off his lower lip. "Should I start?"

_Yes, because I need a moment to commit that visual to my permanent memory. If I even have such a thing as permanent memory anymore. _"Sure."

He picks the first card off his stack. "What did you do during recess in elementary school?"

"Dud question," I answer, and he cocks his head quizzically. "We didn't have recess in my elementary school."

"Seriously?"

"Yup." I draw a card from my pile, and read, "What was your favorite Disney movie when you were a child?"

He thinks for a moment, scrunching up his nose adorably. "Probably _The Little Mermaid_."

"How come?"

"I guess I identified with Ariel. She grew up feeling like she didn't belong. She loved her father and her friends, but she knew there was more for her out there."

I study his wistful face and feel a tug of guilt. "You would have left Lima after high school, if it weren't for me."

"No," he corrects me. "_We _would have left Lima, _together_, if it weren't for the _attack_."

"But you waited around for me all year—"

"If Ariel had to choose between moving back under the sea with Eric, or staying on land alone, which one do you think she'd pick?" he presses, his voice quiet. "Sometimes it's not about the place you end up. Sometimes it's about who you end up with, and knowing that they make you truly happy." He absently thumbs the corner of his stack of cards. "I'm glad I waited around for you all this time. Seems to have worked out for me, don't you think?"

I reach out to squeeze his hand, smiling shyly at him as he reads the next card.

* * *

><p>By the end of our Wednesday coffee date, I've learned Kurt's favorite color, biggest pet peeves, favorite way to unwind after a long day, non-seasonal allergies, and ideal honeymoon locale. In return, he's learned my favorite position to sleep in, most memorable vacation, favorite season, least favorite musical genre, and childhood celebrity crush (well, not really... I tried claiming it was one of the Hanson brothers, but from the smirk that wouldn't leave his face, I know I must have admitted the embarrassing truth to him at some point last year).<p>

"So," he says, as he tries to make a house out of the cards we've read today. "Friday."

"Friday," I nod, pointedly ignoring the fluttering of anticipation in my stomach. "Ready to tell me what we're doing on our date?"

"I told you, it's nothing exciting. It's just going to be low-key."

"Not even a hint?"

"Nope."

"Fine," I reply, trying to keep the whine out of my voice. "What should I wear? Since you're in charge of choosing my attire and all..."

"Something casual and comfortable. Maybe one of your green sweaters; they bring out your eyes. Jeans will be fine. " His house of cards teeters and collapses, and he frowns. "Your turn."

I draw a new card from the pile and set it back down. "Ugh, dud."

"What's it say?"

"Nothing. I'll get a different one."

"Blaine."

"I don't—"

"Just read it."

I pick it up begrudgingly. "If you could permanently alter one thing about your physical appearance, what would you choose?"

He blinks. "How is that a dud question?"

"Because you're perfect. You shouldn't change anything about yourself."

I don't think I've ever seen him look quite so speechless. The tips of his ears are turning a brilliant red. "You think I'm perfect?"

"Please. You ought to be on some runway in Italy, not stuck in a coffee shop in Ohio."

"God, Blaine, I l—" he abruptly stops speaking, then swallows. "Thanks. I would have said I would change my—"

"_Perfect_," I insist, and he laughs as he draws a new card from his pile.

"If you had to have sex simultaneously with two people you know," he reads, "who would you want them to be?"

I furrow my brow in confusion. "How can you have sex simultaneously with two people?"

"Is that a trick question?" When I don't respond, Kurt realizes that it isn't. "Think about Legos fitting together."

"Oh." My eyes widen as I get it. "_Oh._"

"Did you really not know that?"

I shrug one shoulder, embarrassed. "I've never really had a boyfriend... well, one that I can remember. And I keep meaning to research what's entailed beyond the basics — it's not like they covered it in sex ed class — but I figured I'd wait until I was interested in dating someone, so I'd know what I was getting myself into. Then when I woke up after the attack, and I was with my parents all the time... there didn't seem to be a good time to start Googling gay sex, you know?"

He doesn't say anything. I start to squirm in my seat.

"I know," I blurt out. "I _know_. I have about as much sexual knowledge as—"

"A baby penguin?" he suggests, and I snort.

"I was going to say a first grader, but okay. That works too." My eyes shift away from his keen gaze. "So we, uh... we had..."

"Yes."

"More than once?"

"_Oh_ yes."

"Were you my..."

"Yes. You were my first, too." He pauses, then adds, "My only."

I take a big gulp of my coffee, and even though it's grown cold, I can feel a warmth spreading inside me just the same.

* * *

><p>Sebastian calls that afternoon to invite me to a movie, and I accept his offer at once. It's an ideal scenario — two hours of not having to make small talk, and it will still count as our second date. I'll be one step closer to being able to see Kurt exclusively.<p>

What I don't factor in, though, is just how dark a movie theater is, and just how low Sebastian's hand drifts as he guides me toward the seats. I almost drop the two sodas I'm carrying when he hooks his thumb under my belt and slides his fingers lower.

In a rare stroke of brilliance, I enter a row and move all the way over so that I'm sitting next to a woman my mom's age. She looks up at me and smiles, giving me the perfect opportunity to ask her what she's heard about the film, and whether she thinks George Clooney's Oscar buzz will be warranted.

After a few minutes, there's a tap on my shoulder. I turn to see Sebastian scowling at me. "Should I go?" he asks. "I wouldn't want to interrupt your date with Demi Moore over there."

He's right, I realize. I'm being incredibly rude. Yes, his hand was a bit lower on my back than I would have preferred, but did I _tell _him it made me uncomfortable? How was he to know?

"I'm sorry," I murmur, wrapping my lips around my straw and taking a sip of my drink.

"It's okay," he whispers in my ear. "Do you want to move to the back row, so I can blow you?"

I choke on my soda, coughing and sputtering as the trailers mercifully begin. Sebastian settles for placing his hand on my knee. It's not inappropriate for a date, I don't think. He's just letting it rest there. But then he's... oh... his palm is drifting up my thigh. He squeezes it hard, halfway up, and I feel myself stirring. He's moving it even higher now—

I move my soda so it's positioned firmly over my groin. The sudden cold squelches my arousal, and the cup blocks his hand from wandering any further.

"I keep forgetting you're a born-again virgin," he mutters, his lips grazing my earlobe. God help me, but I can't help shivering a little in response.

I spend the rest of the movie sunk down in my seat, my stomach turning, feeling like I'm cheating on Kurt somehow.

* * *

><p>"Two dates down," I tell Kurt the next morning when he arrives at our table. "Just one more to go, and then you can have me all to yourself."<p>

Kurt accepts the coffee I have waiting for him. "Two dates already? Really?"

"Really," I say, counting off on my fingers. "We went to Scandals on Monday, and a movie yesterday."

"Hmm." He sips his coffee with an inscrutable expression. "Did he ask you out again?"

"Yup. This Saturday. Scandals is having another karaoke night. A few songs and I'm hitting the road." _So that I don't run into that Dave guy again_, I don't add. I pop the lid off the _Getting to Know You _box, setting aside the rubber-banded cards we've already gone through. "This is real, Kurt. It's going to happen. You and I are going to happen."

He busies himself by stacking the cards in piles, and I kindly pretend not to notice how wet his eyes have become. He clears his throat a couple of times before reading aloud his first card. "If you could teach your child one lesson, what would it be?"

"Uh. Wow." I chew on my bottom lip, thinking. "I'd want to, uh... god. Just one lesson?"

"That's what the card says."

"I guess... I'd want my kid to treat everyone with kindness." He's nodding pensively, so I ask, "What about you? What would you teach your kid?"

"That he matters," he says simply.

There's a story there, I'm sure, but I don't push it. Instead, I pick up another card. And immediately start to laugh.

"What?" he asks.

"Would you ever kiss someone of the same gender as you?" He laughs too, loudly, and a couple of people at nearby tables turn to stare at us. "Okay, I'm changing it," I tell him. "Would you ever kiss someone of the _opposite _gender?"

"I already have," he admits, a little sheepishly.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. It was during a dark period in my life. I, uh... I wore... trucker caps. And plaid flannel." He looks so traumatized, but I'm still laughing.

"Well, I have you beat, I guess," I say proudly. "I've never kissed a girl." His expression shifts into something appraising and sly, and I can feel the smile slowly fade from my face. "What?" His dimple is showing. He's clearly trying not to laugh. "No... I've kissed a _girl_?"

"Twice, actually. Same girl, both times."

"But why? I'm gay! I am _so gay_!"

"Not arguing there."

"Who was she? I mean, did I think she was a boy at the time?"

He pauses dramatically. "Her name... is Rachel Berry. She has long hair and wears knee socks. And headbands. And sweaters with animals on them."

I drop my head into my palms, humiliated. "Are you sure this wasn't _after _I was brain-damaged?"

"No," he assures me. "No, you knew what you were doing. You two kissed and sang a drunken duet and you were smitten, for a time. I mean, don't get me wrong, Rachel has her good points. She may be irritating, but she means well. And god, her singing talent is incredible, eclipsed only by her overinflated ego. She's an only child who's been spoiled by her two gay fathers her whole life."

I look up, incredulous. "And she didn't pick up on _my _gayness?"

"You were doubting it yourself at that point." He's straightening his pile, avoiding my gaze.

I blink at him in realization. "I hurt you."

"What?"

"When I questioned my sexuality, I hurt your feelings."

He nods. "You did, yes."

"I'm sorry."

"I... It wasn't even you," he reminds me.

"I'm still sorry."

He smiles at me, a real smile, before drawing another card. "If you were granted one wish, what would you choose?"

A hundred different options run through my head. Everything from _I wish I didn't have to go on that third date with Sebastian _to _I wish I were taller _to _I wish the attack had never happened _to _I wish I could remember you__..._

"Can I get back to you on that?"

"You know it's not a real wish, right, Blaine? I'm not a genie."

"Does that mean I don't get to rub your lamp?"

His laugh rings out again, loud and ridiculous and I can't remember the last time I felt this giddy with happiness.

* * *

><p>We make arrangements to meet at the Lima Bean as usual on Friday morning. I agonize over what to wear, eventually settling on jeans and a soft sage green sweater. I leave Rob's apartment extra-early so I'll have time to make a special stop on the way. My GPS leads me to a florist shop between here and Lima that opens at eight o'clock.<p>

Once I'm inside, I know that I've been in here before. There's something familiar about the heady aroma of flowers, the cool humidity, the low hum of glass coolers along the walls. I scan the tiny shop, hoping to jog a memory, but nothing comes.

"May I help you?" A clerk has emerged from the back room, her arms laden with gorgeous stargazer lilies.

"Ah, yes, thank you. I'd like to buy some flowers."

"Then you've come to the right place," she quips, placing the lilies in a glass vase. "Any flowers in particular?"

"Uh..." Amazingly, with all the cards we've gone through, Kurt's favorite flowers have never come up. "Roses?" I guess.

"Well, our supply of roses isn't great in the winter months. But you can check out that section over there." She gestures toward a row of glass coolers. "Let me know if you need any help."

"Thanks." I wander over to the rose section and stare at the options, puzzled. What sort of message do I want to convey? Red means love, of course, but I don't want to come on overly strong. Pink seems too girly, white seems too innocent. Finally I open the cooler door, pulling out a handful of red-tipped roses and another handful of yellow roses. Love and friendship. What message could be better? I bring the flowers over to the counter, carefully laying them down as the clerk finishes arranging her vase of lilies.

"All set?"

"Yes. I'd like these in a bouquet, please."

She smiles. "You have a good eye. These are beautiful."

"Yeah. They are." I grin dopily, watching as she wraps the roses in green tissue paper and ties a wide silk ribbon around the pretty bouquet.

"What are they for?" she asks.

"To celebrate," I say, digging out my wallet.

"Special occasion?"

"Special person."

The clerk smiles in appreciation. I hand over my credit card and lean down to smell the roses.

"Tell your special person to hang a couple of the roses upside-down in a cool, dark place. They'll dry nicely," she says as she hands me my receipt.

"Will do. Thanks."

I head back outside, laying the roses on the passenger seat before climbing back into my car. I take a deep breath as I start the ignition, pointing my car toward Lima.


	15. Chapter 15

_**A/N:** A million, trillion thanks to **Bryanna** for all her help with this chapter. I really couldn't have done it without her. Much love, too, to **Cathedral Carver**, who's writing a Sherlock crossover as we speak. Right? Right?_

_By the way, I think this is the first time that I've actually cried while writing one part of this story. You'll probably be able to guess which part._

* * *

><p>I'm already in the Lima Bean parking lot when I start to second-guess myself about the flowers. Kurt said it himself — this is supposed to be a low-key date, and yet I'm showing up with a dozen and a half roses. Where is he supposed to put them? It's not like he has a vase in his trunk. This was a stupid idea.<p>

I sit in the car for a full five minutes, debating with myself, until a tap at the window gets my attention. He's standing next to my car, looking gorgeous as ever. I get caught up in staring at him, so he knocks again pointedly. "Roll down the window, Blaine," he calls.

I do. "Good morning."

"Morning. I must have missed the memo — are we having coffee in your car today?" His tone is light, but his eyes are worried.

I sigh with embarrassment. Leaning my head down against the steering wheel, I grab the flowers off the passenger seat and thrust them out the window at him. He takes them without a word, and after too much silence has passed, I take a chance and peek up at him. He's staring at the flowers with the strangest look on his face.

"I, um..." He swallows.

"What?"

He closes his eyes and smells the roses. "They're lovely."

Relief flooding my veins and a smile pulling at my lips, I pluck the key out of the ignition and get out of my car. "Well? What's in store for us today?"

"A bunch of things. Let's get some coffee and weigh our options." I follow him into the Lima Bean. Our usual table is occupied, so after getting our coffee from the barista, we choose a table by the window. Kurt takes out a spiral pad of paper, flipping forward until he finds a page with a handwritten list on it. "First of all—"

"I'm sorry," I say teasingly, "but did you take notes? Is there going to be a test later?"

"_First of all_, we need to decide what we're doing first today."

"Drinking coffee, it would seem."

"Aren't you feisty this morning. I couldn't decide which of these to do, so you get to decide. Either we drive a couple of towns over, where they're having a two-day carnival with games and kiddie rides—"

"Awesome. Please, continue, but awesome."

"Or we could swing by Dalton and take a nostalgic tour of the campus together."

My heart stops. We can't possibly go to Dalton. What if we run into Sebastian or his friends, and Kurt sees his so-called competition up close and personal, and hears all of the inappropriate things that Sebastian is sure to say to me— "Carnival," I blurt out. "I mean, it's only here for a couple of days, and Dalton's been around for over a hundred years. Chances are, it'll still be there if we want to visit some other time."

He accepts the excuse with a smile, and my pulse starts back up again. "Carnival it is."

"We're doing that all day?"

"Oh, no. Plenty of surprises in store for you today, my dear." He hops up, taking my hand and pulling me out of the coffee shop, toward my car.

I look around. "Where's your Navigator? Are you leaving it here?"

"Caught a ride with my dad this morning. Can I drive?" I toss him my key. He unlocks the doors for us and lays the flowers in the back seat carefully before joining me in the car. Then he turns and looks at me thoughtfully. "Huh."

"Huh?"

"Turn your chin a little," he instructs. I turn toward him, and he shakes his head. "No, the other way. Face straight ahead." Confused, I comply, and he leans in swiftly, kissing my cheek. "Thank you for the flowers," he whispers.

I'm still smiling when we reach the carnival.

* * *

><p>As traveling fairs go, this one is pretty large. From the entrance alone I can spot a ferris wheel, a whirl-a-gig, a log flume, a tilt-a-whirl, and a carousel. The air is heavy with the aroma of french fries and funnel cakes, and I reach out to clasp Kurt's hand in anticipation. Then I freeze, looking down. "Is this okay?"<p>

He glances around. The fair is crowded, and nobody seems to be paying attention to us, but he still looks tense. "Um..."

"It's okay." I squeeze his hand and let it go.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Really. Can we see what games they have?"

He nods agreeably, and we wander off to check out the booths. Each game costs a quarter, and when Kurt pulls out a baggie filled with silver coins, I can't help squeaking with excitement. We try our hand at the ring toss, both failing miserably. We're just as bad at throwing ping pong balls into glass bottles, and spraying targets with water guns. "These games are rigged," Kurt mutters, shooting a death glare at a little girl who's just sunk her third ping pong ball to win a giant purple gorilla. I laugh at him and drag him over to the whack-a-mole booth. I'm rotten at it, but he's concentrating fiercely, and when the timer buzzes, he's won a fuzzy crocodile keychain.

"For you," he says, presenting it to me, and I pretend to swoon. "Shut up and put your car key on it," he says, grinning.

"You have my key."

"Then_ I'll_ shut up and put it on." We stop near the caricature booth while he fumbles with the clasp, easing my car key onto the keychain. "There. Now you'll never lose it."

"My hero."

We split a sugary funnel cake and take turns making splatter paint designs before heading for the rides.

"Carousel?" I propose.

"Ferris wheel?" he counters, and I agree gamely.

Minutes later, we're swooping slowly in a wide circle, fifty feet into the air and back down again. When our car stops at the top, I peek down to make sure we're not visible from the ground before I turn to Kurt. "Huh."

"Huh?"

"Turn your—"

He catches on faster than I did, leaning in to kiss me on the mouth. We take our time, sliding our palms together as my tongue creeps out to steal a taste of powdered sugar off his lips. I pull back once the car starts to move again, but I don't let go of his hand.

He doesn't let go of mine, either.

* * *

><p>Once we've toured the whole carnival and I've failed to convince him to get his face painted, we get back in the car. "Where to now?" I ask.<p>

Kurt hums mysteriously. "You'll see."

We're heading back in the direction of Lima, but he doesn't go toward the center of town. Instead, he drives to the outskirts, which is mostly farms and open land. It's hard not to keep asking where we're going, but the anticipation of it is half the fun. He parks the car on the side of the road, near the base of a steep hill.

"I can't believe you wore your snow boots," he says, laughing at my footwear.

"I didn't know whether we'd be outside today," I reply, embarrassed, before noticing— "Hey! Who're you to judge? You're wearing snow boots too!"

He waggles his eyebrows at me before getting out of the car and starting up the hill. After a moment, I clamber out and follow him. When I catch up, he intertwines our fingers and swings our hands back and forth as we climb.

I'm not dressed right for this. My cashmere sweater is too nice, and my woolen coat is going to smell if I get too much snow on it, and I really should have worn thicker socks. But Kurt's hand is so warm, and our elbows and shoulders bump together as we walk.

How is it that this simple closeness is more arousing than Sebastian's hand boldly squeezing my upper thigh?

We reach the top of the hill, and Kurt lets go of my hand. "Wait here. And close your eyes." I oblige, breathing in the cold, crisp air and listening to the crunch of his feet in the snow as he walks away. He returns shortly, and I can hear a sliding sound joining that of his footfalls. "Okay, open them." He's standing in front of me, a long wooden toboggan at his side.

"Sledding?" I ask, my eyes wide.

"Yup."

"I've never..."

"You've never been _sledding_?"

"My mom never let me. Said it was too dangerous."

He sits down on the back of the toboggan, spreading his legs out and patting the empty area in front of him. "Courage, Blaine." I settle down in front of him, bending my knees to fit. His feet slide in behind mine, his legs pressed against the outside of my thighs, and he winds his arms tightly around my chest.

Did I say walking up the hill was arousing? Because nothing could possibly top this. I'm hard enough to cut diamonds.

"Grab the reins," he says softly into my ear. "You'll have to steer us. Tell me when you're ready, and I'll push us off."

My heart is racing with adrenaline. He squeezes my chest a little tighter, and I nod. He takes his feet off the board, stepping down onto the snow and pushing hard. We start to slide forward and he tucks his feet back against mine just as the front of the toboggan tips forward. And then we're flying, _flying_ down the hill, cold wind shocking my face and Kurt's whoops of glee filling my ears. We drift to the right, so I tug on the left rein, straightening our path. My stomach drops into my knees with the speed of the toboggan as it races down the hill. All too soon it's over, and we're sliding to a stop about thirty feet from the car.

"Shall we go again?" Kurt murmurs, and I nod vigorously. We head back up the hill, faster this time, still hand-in-hand with the toboggan dragging behind us. When we reach the top, he asks, "Do you want to sit in the back this time?"

"Sure." I sit down on the back of the toboggan, holding out my arms, and he sits in front of me, sliding back until he's pressed tightly against me. I wrap my arms around him, nestling my forehead against his neck, and I'm stunned by the emotion that floods me. I don't move, and he doesn't move. I can feel by the slight shake of his ribcage that he's trying not to cry. "This is how we slept?" I whisper. He nods, and I blow out a long breath.

More than the Lima Bean, more than Rob's apartment, more than even Kurt's kisses, this feels like home. I hold him tightly, and he lets go of the reins to grip my hands against him.

I don't know how long we sit there together. It's long enough for Kurt's tears to finally fall, and long enough for them to finally stop. By the time we sled down to the bottom of the hill, we both know we won't be climbing it again. I help him load the toboggan into the trunk, and he starts the car. As he drives back in the direction of Lima, I loosen my seatbelt enough so that I can lean over and lay my head on his shoulder. We don't talk, but between the slide of the toboggan in the trunk and the rustling of the bouquet tissue paper and the clutter of my thoughts, I'm not sure the car could stand another sound.

* * *

><p>Kurt pulls up outside his house, which may have been the last place I expected him to take me. "My parents are at a wedding in Columbus," he says when I look at him questioningly. "They won't be back until late, so don't worry about meeting them."<p>

"But I'll meet them someday, right?" I press. "Soon?"

The tension in his forehead relaxes a bit. "Come on, let's go inside."

The house is still as small and strange as I remember. I start to remove my coat, but he stops me, so I leave it on and watch as he retrieves a covered basket from the refrigerator. "Are we having a picnic?" I ask. "Outside?" That can't be it. The temperature is hovering just above freezing.

And yet he's nodding. _Hey_, I figure,_ if I'm going to get hypothermia for anyone, Kurt's probably worth it._

We make our way through the house quickly. He hands me a couple of thick woolen blankets from the hall closet, then leads me out into the backyard, where I stop and stare in surprise. In front of us, dominating the little yard, is a tall oak tree. And in the oak is a very old treehouse. "This was the only part of the house that got me excited when we moved here," he confesses. "Always wanted one of these as a kid."

"Would you have put up one of those No Girls Allowed signs?"

He just smirks in response. There are weathered planks nailed into the tree trunk, forming a makeshift ladder. He hooks the picnic basket over his elbow and climbs the ladder easily. I follow after him, all the way up through a hole at the base of the treehouse. It's not nearly as frigid in here as I'd feared — the walls and roof may look rickety, but they seem to keep out the worst of the cold. Kurt takes one of the blankets from me and spreads it out over the plywood floor.

"So what's for dinner?" I ask, sitting down beside him.

"Nothing fancy," he says. I help him unload the basket, until there's a plate of turkey sandwiches, a platter of baby carrots and homemade hummus, a bowl of sliced strawberries, and a couple of apple juice boxes in front of us.

I beam at him and steal a carrot. "This looks perfect."

He blushes. "Thank you."

"And I _love_ hummus."

I'm so busy crunching away that I almost miss his soft, "I know."

We eat together quietly, sitting with our sides pressed together, huddled under the extra blanket for warmth. I almost ask if we've done this before, but then I remember that the Hummels moved here several months after our attack. The old Blaine never saw this house.

The old Blaine never saw this Kurt, either. I wonder, not for the first time, what _his_ Kurt was like. I wonder if they were carefree together, planning for their future and picking out ring designs and singing to each other on long car rides. It's probably too idyllic, what I'm imagining, but what do I know? We're both scarred and broken versions of our former selves.

Eventually the temperature grows too cold to stay outside. We pack up the leftovers from our dinner, carrying them down the ladder and into the house. I help him tidy up, and then there's nothing left to do. We both stand in his kitchen awkwardly. It's dark out, and we've spent the whole day together. Maybe he wants me to leave.

God, I hope he doesn't want me to leave.

He rubs his neck absently. "How about a movie?"

"Yes," I say too quickly, earning me a relieved smile.

"What would you like to watch?"

"Anything."

We head into the living room, draping our coats over an armchair. Kurt pops in the first DVD he finds — _The Bourne Supremacy_ — before sitting beside me on the couch. I keep sneaking peeks at him as the movie begins. When he finally catches me looking, I murmur self-consciously, "Can... can we?"

Somehow, he knows what I'm asking. He doesn't say anything, but his eyes get very wide as he nods. I shift to lie down along the back of the couch, and he lies in front of me. My arms curl around him, and he lets out a loud, contented sigh. I nestle my face in his hair. He smells so good, I notice drowsily, and he feels like he was made to fit in my arms. I won't let myself fall asleep like this, though. I want to remember every moment of how this feels.

The movie is nearly over when I hear noises coming from the kitchen. Before I have time to get alarmed, a tall guy wanders into the living room, his arm shoved deep into a bag of potato chips as he chews. "Hey Kurt. Hey Blaine," he mumbles with his mouth full. Then he freezes, his eyes widening and his mouth falling open. "Dude."

Kurt is up off the couch in an instant, hurrying toward him. "Finn—"

"Blaine! That's _Blaine_!"

"You're not supposed to be here—" Kurt's pulling on his brother's arm, trying to drag him back to the kitchen, but Finn isn't budging.

"What does this mean? Did he get his memory back?"

"No, let's just—"

"Wait, is it not really Blaine? Is it just some guy who looks like him? Because that's creepy, Kurt."

"It's Blaine," Kurt insists weakly. Then he stops pulling at Finn altogether. "It's really him."

And now they're hugging each other, Finn laughing incredulously, and I have absolutely no clue what's going on. I stand up and walk over, extending my hand. "It's nice to meet you, Finn."

He shakes the potato chip crumbs off his hand before clasping mine warmly. "So good to see you, man. I can't believe Mom didn't tell me. We'll have to have you over for the next Friday night dinner."

Kurt looks away. "Finn—"

"And there's a big game on Monday, you should come over and watch it with me and Burt."

"_Finn_—"

"What?"

"You can't tell them about this. About Blaine."

"Tell... Wait, they don't know?" Finn looks about as appalled as I feel. "Why not?"

"Promise me, Finn. Promise me you won't tell."

"But—" He looks like he's going to object, but something in Kurt's expression changes his mind. "Fine, I guess," he says finally. "If you're sure—"

"I'm sure."

"Then I won't."

"Thank you."

My cheeks are burning with humiliation. "I should go," I mutter, grabbing my coat. "Before your parents get back and see me." Because apparently I'm something that needs to be hidden.

Kurt walks me to the kitchen door, looking conflicted. "I'm sorry," he says, as Finn gives me an uncertain wave goodbye. "He was supposed to be staying over at his girlfriend's apartment tonight. They must have had another argument—"

"Are you ashamed to be with me?" I interrupt.

He gapes at me. "What? Of course not."

"Then why aren't you telling your family?"

"I..." He sighs. "It's not that I'm ashamed. I promise."

"Then what is it? Did they not like me?"

"No, they loved you. That's the problem. It was hard enough on them when we lost you the first time around."

And now we're back to this again. "Why do you keep thinking I'm going to leave you?" I demand, frustrated. "Why can't you just have faith in me, for once?"

"Look, once you've gone on your last date—"

"It's stupid," I tell him. "Your rule is _stupid_. I don't even want to go on these dates. I don't know what you're trying to prove to me—"

"I'm trying to prove it to _me_," he bursts out. "Faith doesn't come easily to me, Blaine. If I see that you can go out with someone else and still want me afterwards—"

"I have! I _do_!"

He puts his hands on my shoulders, steadying me. "One more date," he breathes. "Just one more. Please."

"Can you come over afterwards? Be at Rob's apartment waiting for me when I get back?" He shakes his head quickly, and I frown. "Right. Because you think there's still a chance I will have chosen the other guy."

"Just call me afterwards, like you did before. So I know you're home safe."

"And alone," I sigh.

"And alone, yes."

"And then we can start talking about our future for real?" I press. "Telling your family, planning for New York, deciding—"

"_If_ you still want me after your date, then we can talk about all that. Yes."

I lean in to kiss him, and he kisses back, harder than I'd expect. "I'll talk to you tomorrow," I assure him.

"Maybe."

"I'll talk to you tomorrow," I repeat firmly, kissing him again before he can disagree with me. We stand in his doorway, kissing more and more desperately, and I try not to think about how it feels as though we're saying goodbye. I pull back, studying his beautiful face, pale with anxiety. "Tomorrow," I whisper. I kiss him on the cheek and leave.

All the way home, I think and plan and dream for what's in store for us. Because there's no way Sebastian Smythe or anyone else could ever touch what we have.


	16. Chapter 16

_**A/N**: A million thanks to **Bryanna** for being such an insanely quick and talented beta. Like, oh my god, she's amazing._

_Also, sorry for my April Fool's joke on tumblr. And for not posting a real sneak peek for this — we're going to visit family for Easter Weekend and I knew I wouldn't be around to post this later. I figured you'd rather have the full chapter anyway!_

* * *

><p>I pull on a black sweater and black jeans, worrying about all the things that could possibly go wrong on my date tonight. That guy Dave could threaten me again. Someone could attack me on my way to the parking lot. A stranger could spike my drink, leaving me helpless and unable to get home. An idea occurs to me, and I move into the kitchen, where Rob has a collection of promotional magnets on his refrigerator. One of them lists the name and telephone number of a taxi service. I call and arrange for a cab to pick me up outside the apartment building at eight, and then from Scandals at eleven. Once that's settled, I'm able to relax a bit. I'll have a safe ride home at a set time and place.<p>

There's still the other problem, though. The one I haven't really let myself think about.

Deep down, I have to admit that I'm attracted to Sebastian. He has no sense of boundaries, and he's arrogant, and he makes me uneasy. But he also leaves me feeling flattered, and confused, and... aroused. It's clear that my feelings for Kurt run far deeper emotionally, but Kurt won't be there tonight. It will just be me and Sebastian... and his wandering hands.

For a moment, I consider not going. I could tell Kurt that I'd gone on the third and final date, and hope that he believes me. But tonight, I finally understand why he set this dating rule. If I end up with him, he needs for me to have _chosen_ to be with him, not just fallen into it blindly. If I get through tonight and still want Kurt more than Sebastian afterwards, it will prove that he and I are together out of more than just convenience.

I need something to remind me of Kurt when I'm at Scandals tonight. Some sort of touchstone, to ground me. Heading back into the bedroom, I spy the box of items that I recovered from my parents' chest. Sitting right at the top is the now-familiar band of winding silver vines. I pick up the promise ring, read the inscription inside — _Always yours, Kurt_ — and smile. In Rob's bedroom, I find a long, thin chain and slip the ring onto it, fastening it around my neck.

Kurt was wearing a necklace like this the day I met him. If the reminder has worked for him, maybe it will work for me, too.

My cell phone rings just before eight. The taxi is here. I slip the necklace under my sweater, where the cool metal rests against my heart. Taking a deep breath, I send a quick text to Kurt — _Leaving now. I'll call you later._ One more glance around the apartment, and I'm ready.

I can do this.

He texts back a simple _hope so_. Somehow, I know he'll be sitting by his phone all night until he hears from me.

* * *

><p>Scandals is packed with people, which I guess makes sense. It is a Saturday night, after all. I find Sebastian over at the bar, with two drinks in front of him. He lights up when he sees me.<p>

"Hey, gorgeous! Here, I got you a drink. Just warning you, it has a splash of alcohol in it."

I perch on the barstool next to his. After a tentative sip, I find that the drink takes mostly like Sprite. I'm a little uneasy drinking liquor here, but it's not like Sebastian is trying to secretly spike my drink. He was upfront about there being alcohol in it, and from the taste, there doesn't seem to be much. I take another sip, trying to relax. "So what's in store for us tonight? More karaoke?"

"You know it."

"Did you bring your backup singers again?"

He points vaguely toward the dancing crowd, where I can just make out a blond head among the throngs of men. "They're over there somewhere. But I think I'll be singing on my own tonight."

"Really? Do you have a song in mind?" The drink is good. I haven't had Sprite in ages. I finish it quickly, and Sebastian waves to the bartender, gesturing for him to give me a refill.

"Not sure yet. I want to see where the night takes us." His hand is on my knee again, and I'm reminded about that whole _arousing_ thing. We sit and watch the crowd of men dancing as a guy in a puffy vest belts out a Ricky Martin song. Sebastian's hand doesn't move any higher on my knee, which I'm mostly relieved about. Mostly.

"I don't really know anything about you, Sebastian," I blurt out. "We've been on three dates and all I've gathered is that we used to know each other once, you're attracted to me, and you go to Dalton."

He squeezes my knee gently. "I keep forgetting that you missed that whole getting-to-know-you portion of our relationship."

"How _did_ we get to know each other? You said we met after I'd transferred to public school."

"You came back to visit Dalton a few months after you'd left. I'd heard all about you from the other Warblers, so I took you out for coffee afterwards. Wanted to pick your brain about how best to lead the group." He sips his own drink, then pauses. "We kept meeting up for coffee, chatting online, talking on the phone once or twice a week. Mostly about music or movies. We were both big fans of _Across the Universe_, and you were always trying to convince me that The Beatles are better than The Rolling Stones."

"Well of course The Beatles are better," I say at once. "How could you possibly think otherwise?"

He laughs, revealing rows of perfect white teeth. "Same old argument, just a different setting."

"You, um..." I bite my lower lip. "You said we had chemistry, back then."

"I'd like to think we still do," he says, rubbing his thumb lightly against the inside of my thigh. I fight a shiver of pleasure at the feeling.

"If we had such chemistry, then why were we just friends?"

His thumb stills. "You just weren't looking for anything romantic." _Because I already had a boyfriend_, I don't supply. I wonder whether Sebastian and Kurt even knew about each other. "It was a shame. I really liked you. Still do, in fact."

I finish my Sprite cocktail and find a new one already waiting for me. Between the sugar and the alcohol and Sebastian's thumb resuming its slow rubbing, I feel good. Calm. There's been no sign of the infamous Dave, and no one else seems to be paying attention to us.

"Have you given any thought to what you're doing next year?" he asks.

"You mean like college?"

"Yeah. You're a senior, now, right?"

"I am, yes. I've applied to a lot of schools. You?"

He nods. "Most of my applications are due in January, so I'm just putting the finishing touches on some of my essays. My first choice is Dartmouth."

"That's a great school."

"I know. Where do you think you'll end up?"

_New York_, I think suddenly, and I can feel the light weight of the promise ring where it rests against my chest. "Depends on where I get in." My eyelids are starting to feel heavy. I rub at my neck, my fingernails catching on the chain of the necklace. The ring drags slowly across my skin. "I think there... think there was more than a splash of alcohol in the Sprite, Sebastian."

"Had to figure out how to get you to relax," he murmurs. "You're always so tense when we're together. Sometimes I'm not even sure why you're going out with me. Don't you like me, Blaine?"

I like the way he squeezes my knee again. But not as much as I like the way it feels to hold Kurt. Right? This is confusing. I wish Kurt were here. I wish I knew which way was up.

"Okay," comes a booming voice over the microphone. "Let's give it up for our next brave singer this evening, Blaine Anderson!"

I look at Sebastian in alarm, and he laughs. "You put my name in?"

"Get on up there, champ," he says, pushing at my shoulder. "Your adoring fans are waiting."

Still stunned, I stagger my way toward the stage, the alcohol making my limbs feel loose and sleepy. The crowd is clapping for me as I near the front. There's a man by the microphone, pulling me up onto the stage and pointing at a screen where the lyrics will appear.

"Wait, what'm I singing?" I call, but then the opening chords start to play, and I smile at once in relieved recognition. This has always been one of my favorite Beatles songs. I close my eyes, not needing to read the lyrics, and begin to sing.

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night_  
><em>Take these broken wings and learn to fly<em>  
><em>All your life<em>  
><em>You were only waiting for this moment to arise<em>

All of a sudden, I feel the familiar pulling sensation of a spell overtaking me. The visions are so clear, even crisper than reality. But for the first time, they're not visions of anything that happened before the attack. For the first time, it's just _me_, remembering.

I'm catching sight of a gorgeous boy sitting alone in a coffee shop, and daring to go over and introduce myself.

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night_  
><em>Take these sunken eyes and learn to see<em>

I'm laughing helplessly as he slides across my icy driveway in oversized house slippers. I'm cheering while he pounds away at plastic moles with a mallet.

_All your life_  
><em>You were only waiting for this moment to be free<em>

I'm burying my fingers in his hair while we make out in the back seat of his car, and he's groaning as heat and passion and _something else_ burn bright between us.

_Blackbird, fly_  
><em>Blackbird, fly<em>  
><em>Into the light of the dark black night<em>

I'm sharing a picnic dinner with him in a rickety old treehouse. He's looking up at me with shining eyes and dabbing at the corner of my mouth with a napkin. His face is beautiful in the moonlight.

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night_  
><em>Take these broken wings and learn to fly<em>  
><em>All your life<em>

I'm wrapped around him on a toboggan at the top of a steep hill, oblivious to the coldness of the air and the dampness of my socks and the sharp slope of the path that lies before us. He feels like home. He feels like forever.

_You were only waiting for this moment to arise_  
><em>You were only waiting for this moment to arise<em>  
><em>You were only waiting for this moment to arise<em>

I finish the song and open my eyes, surprised to find that they're wet. The crowd is generous with their applause, and I sigh in relief.

I'm in love with Kurt.

I love his wit and his warmth, his beauty and his compassion. I love the way I feel when I'm with him, and I hate the way I feel when I'm without him. I want to fall asleep every night with him tucked close against me. I want to wake up with him tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. I want everything.

_Always yours, Kurt._

With a big stumbling step, I'm off the stage and making my way back toward the bar. Sebastian is waiting, grinning happily, and I grin back. "I'm in love!" I say, reaching him.

He chuckles fondly. "After three dates?"

"No, it's Kurt, I'm in love with Kurt!"

I'm so busy beaming at my Sprite that I almost miss his faint response. "You... you got your memory back?"

"No," I say happily, downing the rest of my drink. "I didn't! I mean, yeah, some spells here and there, but they don't matter, because I love Kurt! I love him! I don't even have to remember all that history between us, I love him now and I wish he were here, you would understand if you met him, he's just the greatest—"

"Stop. Just stop." He runs his palm over his chin. "How do you even know Kurt?"

"We've been dating for a couple of weeks."

"At the same time that you've been dating me?"

_Oh._ I turn to look at Sebastian guiltily. "I'm really sorry. He had this rule about how I had to go out on three dates with someone else..."

"You dated me because of a rule he made."

"Yeah."

"For you to go on three dates."

"Yeah."

"So tonight... this was it," he finishes, looking angry. "After tonight, I was never going to see you again."

"Well, I mean, we could be friends—"

"You've been leading me on this whole time."

My mind is reeling. Sebastian has a glass of ice water in front of him, so I take it and chug it, hoping to clear my head. It's only after I finish swallowing that I realize that it wasn't water at all. "Ugh, what was that? Tastes like rubbing alcohol."

"You led me on," he presses.

I sense movement at my right, and look up to see Blond Guy and Moley Guy standing beside us. They have names. Names like... uh. Okay, I can't come up with their names.

"What's going on?" Moley Guy asks warily.

"Blaine here says he's in love with Kurt Hummel," Sebastian replies tightly, and I blink in surprise.

"You know Kurt?"

Blond guy looks back and forth between us. "Maybe you should go."

I take out my phone and look at the display. It's already 10:45 — my cab should be here soon. The room is starting to swim, and in a fit of brilliance, I dial the cab company again. "Hello? Hi. My name... is Blaine. I ordered a cab. Do you remember?"

"_Blaine Anderson?_"

"Yuh huh."

"_Yes, sir, how can I help you?_"

"Okay, see, okay, thing is... I have been drinking, kind of. I'm a little drunk. Just being honest."

"_I understand. I've just checked your taxi's GPS, and it appears that your driver is already waiting outside. Is that helpful, sir?_"

"That's great. You... are great." Moley Guy is whispering to Sebastian, who waves him off in irritation. "Okay, here's the thing, though. He's taking me to the Wiltshire Apartments, but that's a good half hour away from here. I dunno how awake I'll be when we get there..."

"_I'm sure your driver would be glad to help you inside. What is your apartment number?_"

"It's 309. And the code to get into the building is 23069."

"_I'll get that information to him right away. Thank you for choosing Cardinal Cabs, Mr. Anderson._"

"Thank _you_ for being awesome." I end the call, and Sebastian reaches out to grip my wrist.

"Blaine, please," he says entreatingly. "Don't do this. You never even gave me a real chance."

"I really am sorry. Believe me."

"Then keep going out with me until you get to know me. If you need to date Kurt at the same time, fine."

I shake my head. "I'm in love with him—"

"After _two weeks_?" he bursts out. "You can fall in love with someone that quickly? So if I'd met you a month ago, you'd be with me, and Kurt wouldn't be an issue?"

I struggle to figure out if he's right, but logic is beyond me. The drink that I chugged is hitting me hard. "I need to go."

"You need to give me a shot, that's what you need," he insists. Blond Guy puts a hand on his shoulder, and Sebastian lets go of my wrist to push him away. I take the opportunity to get up, steadying myself with a hand on the bar beside me.

"I'm sorry I hurt you. I never meant to."

Moley Guy moves between us slightly, which leaves enough room for me to slip by them. I walk shakily to the door, relieved to find the cab idling at the curb just like that awesome lady said it would be. The driver catches sight of me and jumps out of the driver's seat, hurrying over to help me.

"Whoa there," he says. "Come on, sport, let's get you in the back seat."

"Did you get my message?"

"About helping you inside your building? Sure did. It's no problem." He winds a thick arm around my shoulders, steering me toward the car. "How much did you drink, kid? I only dropped you off a couple of hours ago."

"Come on, I only had one beer." I laugh as soon as I say it, because that's such a lie.

"All right, here we go. Lie down and try not to throw up, okay?"

"I'm in love," I beam, and for the first time since my realization, someone seems happy for me. He smiles and shuts the door, making his way back to the driver's seat.

With gentle turns, the cab pulls out of the parking lot, heading for the highway. The vibrations from the engine are making me sleepy. A little nauseous, too, but it would be rude for me to vomit in this nice guy's cab. I shut my eyes, smiling.

I'm in love.

* * *

><p>I wake up on Rob's couch, my mouth feeling like it's full of cotton and my bladder ready to explode. Hurrying into the bathroom, I lift the toilet seat and pee for a good minute or so, resting my forehead against the wall. Ugh, I feel like crap. I wash my hands and grab some aspirin from the medicine cabinet. Rob's only got those little Dixie cups in his bathroom, so I refill one over and over again, downing the water like shots until my thirst abates. Then I grab my toothbrush, scrubbing away at my teeth and tongue until the foul taste leaves my mouth.<p>

Rubbing my eyes, I make my way back into the living room, falling back onto the couch again and shoving my face into a throw pillow. The shades are drawn tight, so I'm not sure what time it is, but I could do with some more sleep. I want to make sure I don't have a trace of a hangover when I—

Oh god.

My eyes pop open in realization.

I never called Kurt last night.


	17. Chapter 17

_**A/N**: This chapter was turning out ridiculously long, so I split it in half so that I could have something up for you faster. A lot of the next chapter is written, so I should be able to post it sooner than I usually do. Thanks for your patience. I didn't want to cut any of this; it's all important to the grand scheme of the story._

_Much love to **Bryanna** for her beta help, and big hugs to my favorite birthday girl, **Cathedral Carver**!_

* * *

><p>"Oh no."<p>

I spring off the couch, burying my fingers in my hair. I never called Kurt. I never called him.

"No no no no no..."

Where is my phone? Where—

"This is not happening."

I can't manage to wrap my brain around everything that this implies, but my heart is already aching with understanding.

"Don't do this. Not now."

My phone isn't on the coffee table. I pull the cushions off the couch; it's not under them, either. It's a testament to how slowly my brain is working that I check the pants I'm wearing last, finding the cell in my right front pocket.

One missed call.

"Shit," I choke out, checking the number. It was Kurt. Kurt called me. At 4:21 this morning. A glance at the display on the DVD player tells me it's after eleven now. "_Shit_." My chest feels so tight. It's hard to breathe.

He waited for me. He waited all night for me to call. I can't even imagine what it took for him to be the one to call _me_, and when he did, I didn't even answer the phone. Oh god, what did he think when I didn't answer?

With shaking fingers, I dial his number. The call goes straight to voicemail. I try again, and again, and I keep getting his voice recording. Did he wait so long for my call that his battery died? Did he turn off his phone, assuming that I'd chosen Sebastian and he'd never hear from me again?

My knees are swaying, and I can hear a low pained sound that must be coming from my throat. Why did I drink last night? What was I thinking? Why did I call the cab company after my realization, when I could have called Kurt?

I look around for my shoes. The taxi driver must have taken them off for me before he left. There's one lying near the couch, but I don't see the other. There's no time to search for it. There's no time for _anything_. I can't even imagine what Kurt is going through right now. I need to get to him. I grab my snow boots and shove them onto my feet. My car key is on the table by the door, still attached to the fuzzy crocodile keychain that Kurt won for me at the carnival. In seconds I'm out the door, running for the elevator.

It's bright outside, the sunlight bouncing harshly off the snow. Cursing my hangover, I run to my car and slip on a pair of cheap sunglasses that I keep in the glove compartment. They block out the worst of the sun's glare as I head for Lima, my foot pressing steadily on the accelerator.

* * *

><p>I make it to Kurt's house in record time, and then sit in my car in numb terror. What if he doesn't forgive me? I briefly consider sneaking over to his window and knocking on it. I don't, though — not out of respect for his privacy, but mostly out of fear that he'll see me and draw the blinds closed. I walk up to his front door, wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans, and draw a deep breath. The worst he could do is refuse to talk to me, right? I'd be in the same boat I'm in now. Only not, because I'd lose the little blossom of hope that's still curled deep inside me. Steeling myself, I reach forward and ring the doorbell.<p>

The sound of footsteps grows louder. I hold my breath as the door starts to open.

"I dunno, probably one of those Jehovah's..." Kurt's father is standing there, his mouth falling open as he catches sight of me.

I clear my throat nervously, rocking on my heels. "Ah, hello, is Kurt—" I can't get out another word, because he's rushing onto the stoop and pulling me into a hug so hard my breath gets knocked from my chest.

"Oh my god," he murmurs. He doesn't let up, keeps squeezing me as though I might disappear. For some reason, I kind of like it. "Is it really you? Did your memory— Oh my god. This is... oh my god, kid, I don't pray, but if I did, I'd have been praying for exactly this." He pulls back eventually, swallowing thickly and clapping my shoulder. "Come in, come in. God, it's so good to see you."

I smile politely, following him inside. Kurt's stepmother is folding underwear at the kitchen table. When she sees me, she too rushes to hug me, still holding a pair of boxers in her hand.

"I can't believe it," she gasps, her eyes shining. "This is amazing. How did you even find us here? Did you go to our old house first? Burt, pull out a chair for him, he looks overwhelmed."

"Here, have a seat," Burt says, leading me to one of the kitchen chairs. "Can I get you anything? Do you still like iced tea? Carole, do we even have any iced tea?"

"I'm fine, thank you," I assure them. They're both smiling so widely, staring like they can't see enough of me.

"You look good," Carole says finally. "Your scar healed nicely."

My fingers fly up to my scalp self-consciously. "It did, yes."

"When did you finally remember?" Burt asks eagerly. "Did it just come to you out of the blue? Did you wake up this morning and just know?"

"I, ah..."

"Let me get you something to eat," Carole says. "You still look a little woozy to me. Is your blood pressure low? We've got chips around here somewhere..." She starts rummaging in the cabinets, and Burt gets up to help her search. "Augh, I just bought them on Thursday, where could I have put them?"

"I think Finn finished the bag on Friday night, while you were at the wedding," I supply. They both turn toward me slowly.

"You were here?" Burt asks. "On Friday?"

"Um... I was, yes."

"And Finn was..." Carole sighs in disbelief. Then she bellows, "Finn! Get in here, _now_!" far louder than I'd have thought her capable.

Finn wanders into the kitchen after a minute, yawning and scratching the back of his head, where his hair is sticking up. "Geez, s'matter, ma? I was sleeping..." His eyes widen when he spots the three of us sitting together. "Oh... hi, Blaine."

I give a sheepish little wave as Carole moves toward him. She folds her arms menacingly, and he cowers. It's kind of impressive, actually, considering Finn has a good foot and a half on her. "Something you'd like to tell us, _Finn_?"

"Kurt made me promise not to say anything to you guys!" he says defensively. "He said that it'd just get your hopes up, and—"

"How would it get our hopes up to know that Blaine got his memory back?"

"I haven't," I interject, and the three of them swivel to look at me. "Gotten it back, I mean. A few little bits here and there, but not much."

Burt blinks. "You... but... then how did you find us?"

"I didn't. A couple of weeks ago, I met Kurt for the first time at the Lima Bean. Well, not the _first_ time," I correct myself. "But you know what I mean. The first time for me. We got to talking, and we started meeting up every morning for coffee."

"Every morning?" Carole looks stunned. "For two weeks, and he never told us?"

"Explains why he's been coming into work later and later every day," Burt says under his breath. "And he didn't tell you? About your past and everything?"

"He did, eventually. We're still sort of figuring things out. That's why I'm here — I'd really like to talk to him, if that's okay."

Carole and Burt glance at each other. "Kurt's not here," Carole supplies. "He left. Maybe half an hour ago."

My heart sinks. "Oh."

"He had a rough night. I'm not sure what was going on, but I don't think he ever went to sleep. I got up to use the bathroom around three in the morning, and his light was on. When I poked my head in, he was just sitting on his bed, staring at his cell phone."

I close my eyes briefly. "We had a bit of a misunderstanding. I... yeah. Do you know where he may have gone?" They both shake their heads.

"He doesn't have his cell turned on," Burt adds. "I tried calling shortly after he left, to ask if he'd pick up some orange juice while he was out, but the call went straight to voicemail." He frowns. "Do you think we should be worried?"

"No, I... no." A nervous energy starts trickling through my veins, making my limbs feel restless. It's as though every part of my body is telling me one thing: _Find Kurt_. "I'm going to look for him," I tell them. "If I give you my cell phone number, will you call me if he happens to come home while I'm gone?"

"Of course." Carol hands me a pen, and roots around in a drawer until she finds a pad of green Post-Its. "Here, I'll write down our landline for you, in case you need to reach us."

"Thanks." I jot down my number on another Post-It and hand it to her, before standing up awkwardly. "I guess I should go."

Burt nods reluctantly; he looks as though he'd rather I didn't leave. The three of them walk me to the door and watch me get into my car. I start the engine, before I realize I have no idea where to look.

Where does Kurt Hummel go, when he thinks he's lost everything?

* * *

><p>The Lima Bean is packed with people eating lunch, but a quick scan of the coffee shop tells me that Kurt isn't here. I notice that the barista behind the counter is the same girl who was working the day I met Kurt. Bypassing the line of customers, I make my way to the counter, ignoring the glares it earns me. "Bethany," I call, and when she sees me, her eyes light up.<p>

"Blaine!"

"Have you seen Kurt?"

She nods brightly. "Sure!"

"You have? When?"

"He was in here most of yesterday."

"What about today? Has he been here?"

"Oh, no, I haven't seen him today," she says. "And I've been here since we opened. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Thanks."

Dejected, I head out of the shop and back to my car. I put my key in the ignition, and cock my head when I notice the fuzzy crocodile dangling from it.

* * *

><p>The traveling carnival is closing by the time I get to the fairgrounds. The rides are being hitched to the back of trailers, and the booths are being broken down and loaded into U-Hauls.<p>

I wander around the grounds for nearly an hour. The same place that seemed so exciting and magical yesterday seems run-down and sad today. The carnival workers pay me no attention as they pack up their equipment. I pass the area that once housed the whack-a-mole booth, and notice a few of the crocodile keychains lying half-buried in the snow. For some reason, that sight depresses me more than anything.

I get back in the car and retrace our path from yesterday, heading for the rural outskirts of Lima. I can hear the toboggan sliding in my trunk on the turns, and hope it's a good omen.

The sledding hill is deserted when I get there. I get out and climb up the slope anyway, looking for fresh footprints in the snow, but there's nothing. He hasn't been here, either.

As I trudge back down the hill, fear starts to bubble up inside me. What if he tried to hurt himself? He's upset and exhausted... but surely he wouldn't do that to his family. Surely he would remember how hard it was for them last year when we were attacked, and—

I break into a run, jumping into the car and driving back into town. William McKinley High School is around here somewhere. I know it. I pull over briefly to type the name into my GPS, then follow the directions until I reach the high school. It looks so innocuous from the outside. You'd never know the sort of horror that we experienced that night in the east parking lot.

We'd left the school late after glee club rehearsal, Kurt told me. We'd been practicing a duet that we couldn't get quite right, so we stayed in the auditorium for another hour, running through our harmonies until we were satisfied. It meant that no one from glee was still around when we reached the parking lot. It meant that no one was there to hear our screams for help.

I park in the east lot, breathing deeply. His Navigator isn't here, but I get out of the car anyway, walking around the parking lot. I have no memory of this place at all. I have a feeling, from the haunted look on Kurt's face when he told me about the attack, that in this case, my amnesia is a blessing.

* * *

><p>For a while, I drive around aimlessly. I keep my cell phone on the passenger seat, hoping that the Hummels might call with news, but it stays stubbornly silent. I don't turn on the radio, and all I can hear is the gritty rattle of road salt under my tires, and the shifting of the toboggan in the trunk, and the slight rustling of Kurt's bouquet in the back seat. I lift my head speculatively. <em>His bouquet of roses...<em>

I pull over to the side of the road, searching my brain. Kurt has mentioned his mother to me, many times. He told me about her funeral, about the quiet place where they laid her to rest. _Think_, I tell myself, but for the life of me I can't recall the name of the cemetery.

He wasn't raised religiously. I do remember him telling me that, during one of our rounds of _Getting To Know You_. Most of the cemeteries in the area are on church grounds, so that narrows down the options. I notice an older couple walking nearby, and I roll down my window.

"Excuse me, sir, ma'am," I call. "I'm sorry to bother you, but do you happen to know of any non-denominational cemeteries in the area?"

The man blinks at me in confusion, but the woman speaks up right away. "There's one on Edison Street, called Cedar Hills. And another one called... ah..." She looks at her companion. He just shrugs. "Something with Meadow, maybe."

"Tranquil Meadows!" I blurt out, in a flash of inspiration.

"Yes, that sounds right."

"Thank you so much."

They nod and continue on their way. I type the name into my GPS. Tranquil Meadows is nearly thirty minutes from here. Sighing, I pull a U-turn and drive west.

On the way to the cemetery, I practice what I'll say to Kurt when I find him. "I'm so sorry I didn't call you last night. Believe me, I would have if I'd been conscious..." _No_. "Kurt, I know you must be upset with me, but believe me, I have a good explanation. I drank too much last night and ended up passing out in the back seat of a taxi..." _No_. "Kurt, I wanted to call you, but my date kept ordering me more alcohol and squeezing my thigh, and..." _God, no_. What can I say that will make things right?

"Kurt, I don't really remember you. But I'm in love with you anyway." Not perfect, but it's as close as I'm going to get.

I reach the cemetery just after five o'clock. The sun is starting to set, so I get out of the car quickly, scanning the rows of headstones in the fading light. There's not a sound but the crunch of my boots as I plod through the snow, looking for a glimpse of Kurt among the sea of white. There are fresh-looking footprints several rows over, and I head over toward them, following them curiously. They lead me deeper into the cemetery, past a tall tree, and stop in front of a black headstone. My breath catches in my throat.

_Elizabeth A. Hummel, devoted wife and mother._

He's been here.

I spin around, searching wildly, but he's nowhere in sight. I follow his footprints back from where they originated, and find myself back on the street where I parked. He's gone. He's gone, and I'm out of ideas.

I reach into my back seat, pulling out the bouquet of red and yellow roses and retracing our steps to Mrs. Hummel's grave. The flowers look beautiful, nestled up against her headstone.

* * *

><p>It's dark when I pull back into the Hummels' driveway. There's no sign of Kurt's car, and they haven't called my cell phone, so I know he hasn't come home. But I don't know where else to go.<p>

Carole answers the door and shakes her head when I look at her hopefully. She guides me into the kitchen, where Burt and Finn are sitting at the table, eating dinner. There's a fourth place setting that I'm sure was meant for Kurt, but Carole is coaxing me down onto a chair as Burt transfers a big square of lasagna onto a plate for me. Finn passes me a basket of garlic bread. Suddenly I'm feeling absolutely ravenous. I haven't eaten anything all day, and the lasagna smells delicious. I shovel it down, taking big bites of garlic bread between forkfuls. Carole pours me a glass of milk, and Finn starts talking about the Bobcats' chances this season, and it's only when I feel Burt's hand on my back that I realize I'm crying.

No one says anything. I pull my napkin off the table and press it against my face, embarrassed to be falling to pieces in front of strangers.

"I never cry," I tell them.

"He'll come back to you," Burt murmurs, and I push harder against my eyelids. "It's what you two do. You come back to each other."

* * *

><p>I stay at the Hummels' house for hours, alternating between watching basketball with Finn and watching the front door with Burt. For a while, I keep trying Kurt's cell phone, until Finn notices and tells me that he saw it lying on Kurt's bed.<p>

By ten o'clock, all three of them are starting to yawn. I remember my manners, and despite Carole's offer to make up the sofa bed for me, I tell them I need to go. Burt gives me another one of his bone-crushing hugs, promising to call me when Kurt gets home. This time, I squeeze him back just as tightly.

_I'll come back tomorrow_, I decide on the drive to Rob's apartment. _I'll come back tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. I won't give up on him. And I won't let him give up on me._

Snow is starting to fall again by the time I reach the apartment complex. I park and head into the building, running my thumb over my cell phone, still willing it to ring.

It doesn't.

I trudge down the hall and into Rob's apartment, tossing my keys onto the table by the door. I'm so mentally and physically exhausted that I don't notice that my keys land beside another set. I don't notice the glass of water on the coffee table, and I don't notice that the couch cushions have been replaced. It's only when I'm hanging my coat on the row of wall hooks and see a familiar-looking pea coat that I look up in surprise, and find a pair of familiar blue eyes watching me warily.


	18. Chapter 18

_**A/N:** This chapter is dedicated to **ouranimallove**, who is 100% responsible for it being posted sometime before next year. She endured four (four!) drafts of utter rambling crap, and helped to lead me in the right direction until I had a chapter that left me feeling satisfied. I have a tendency to be overly wordy/dramatic, and she has no problem telling me to cut extraneous things, so we're a perfect match. I'm so happy to work with such an excellent beta. Thank you!_

_My apologies to everyone for the long wait. Except those of you who threatened to come to my house and hold me hostage. You guys were just scary._

_Also, I'm so sorry for not replying to reviews for a while. I had very limited free time, and I figured you'd rather I work on the chapter. I will try to get back to responding, as I think it's really important. _

* * *

><p>Kurt is here.<p>

He's here, standing ten feet away from me in Rob's living room, _here_. He looks absolutely exhausted. His skin is even paler than usual, making the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced as he watches me. His hair is a mess, and he's wearing my oldest hoodie with a pair of baggy sweatpants.

Even still, I swear he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

I take a step toward him, and he backs away. So I stop. And we study each other carefully. His red-rimmed eyes slip downwards, and I can see the shift in his expression when he notices the clothes I'm wearing. He swallows hard before returning his wary gaze to my face.

"Kurt—"

"No." He raises his chin defiantly. "I'm not letting you do this."

"Please—"

"I know what I said," he says shortly. "I know I was the one who made up the rule in the first place. But I won't accept this. I had to make sure that... I mean..." He falters for a moment. "I get it. It's my fault. I've lived with that for a year now. But haven't I been punished enough by now?"

"What are you talking about?" I watch as he crosses the room and lowers himself resolutely into one of Rob's leather wing chairs, gripping the arms. Cautiously, I make my way over to the couch, sitting down. "Kurt?"

"I'm not leaving," he says, his jaw clenched tight. "You can't make me leave."

"I don't _want_ you to—" I begin earnestly, but he interrupts again.

"You've gone on three dates. That's not enough time to really get to know anyone."

"No, believe me, it was enough to realize—"

"I can do better, if you'll let me," he says. "I'll find more romantic dates to take you on. I'll listen to all of your stories, and I'll never be judgmental of anything you say, or do, or wear." At my raised eyebrow, he concedes, "Okay, I'll never _say_ anything judgmental. I can't help thinking it."

I smile at him fondly.

"This guy doesn't know you like I do," he continues fervently. "He doesn't know that you... that you love hummus but hate refried beans. That you got that scar on your left knee when Rob tried to teach you how to ride a bike. That you hate wearing socks, so your shoes start to stink from your sweaty feet." He catches himself. "That doesn't count as judgmental. It was just an observation."

"Of course."

"Anyone can put on a good front for a few dates. He isn't... he just can't be—"

"Kurt," I try again. "Please, listen to me."

"Did you fuck him?" he blurts out.

"_What_?"

"Just... I... Did you fuck him?"

"God, _no_—"

"Just tell me the truth, I can handle it, I just need to know—"

"I didn't f..." I can't even form the word. "I didn't do that!"

"You've been wearing that sweater for at least twenty-four hours. It's completely lost its shape."

I look down at myself self-consciously. "I..."

"You wore that outfit to Scandals last night, didn't you."

"I... did, yes."

"I've been sitting in this apartment since three o'clock, and it's past midnight now. You spent all of last night and all of today with this guy, and I'm supposed to believe that you didn't sleep with him?"

"I was _here_ last night," I insist. "Sleeping. _Alone_."

"Fully clothed in your Scandals ensemble?"

"Yes. I slept here, on the couch."

"How'd you manage that when all of the cushions were on the floor?" he asks tightly.

"They weren't on the floor at that point, I threw them off this morning when I was looking for my phone—"

"So you came back here last night, but you didn't call me like you said you would."

"I—"

"What did you two do together today, then? Certainly not shop for new sweaters."

"I wasn't with him today either, I—"

"Right, so you just decided to spend all day—"

"I spent all day looking for _you_!" This shocks him into silence, and I jump at the chance to defend myself. "I drank too much last night and passed out on the cab ride home. That's what happened. I'm not proud of it, but there it is. When I woke up I tried calling you, but your cell phone was turned off. So I drove to Lima and went to your house. I met your parents—" I pointedly ignore his groan of horror — "and then drove all over the place trying to find you. I went to the Lima Bean, and the carnival fairgrounds, and the sledding hill, and McKinley High—"

"You went _where_? Are you _insane_? You could've gotten attacked again!"

"Well I couldn't find you anywhere else, and I couldn't figure out where you'd be. I even went to Tranquil Meadows to see if you'd gone to visit your mom."

His shoulders sag. "You..."

"You were there today, weren't you?" I press. "I saw footprints in the snow, leading to her grave."

He nods, his head hanging as he sighs. "Oh, Blaine."

I take a chance, moving to sit on the coffee table in front of him. "I am so, so sorry I didn't call. But I promise, I didn't choose the other guy. I chose _you_."

"Please..." He breathes slowly, cautiously. "Please don't tell me things like that unless you're absolutely sure."

"I'm sure. God, I'm_ so sure_."

"Really?"

"Really. You've got to believe me, Kurt, Sebastian means nothing to me. It's you. It's always been you."

"I..." His head whips up suddenly, his eyes unnaturally wide. "Wait, what?"

"I said it's always been you."

"Not... not that part."

"What?"

"Sebastian means nothing to you?" Something in his tone sounds really strange. Like he's deadly calm and utterly hysterical, all at once. "Who's Sebastian?"

"The guy I went on the dates with. He goes to Dalton. I met him when I visited campus last week."

Kurt presses his fingers against his lips until the tips turn white. "You've been dating Sebastian Smythe."

"You know him?" I ask, surprised.

"You've been going to Scandals... and getting drunk... with Sebastian Smythe."

"Last night was the only time I got drunk. I swear."

He gets up abruptly, takes three steps toward the door, and yells, "_Sebastian_ _Smythe_? Are you _kidding_ me?"

"Kurt, I'm telling you, he doesn't mean—" I realize where he's heading, and jump up to chase after him. "Please don't go. Please."

"Do you even know what he did to us the last time around? All of the lies, and the sneaking around?"

"No, I... no!"

"He almost broke us up, Blaine."

"I didn't know that! You know I didn't, or I never would have agreed to go out with him!"

"Not to mention how creepy he was. You almost took out a restraining order against him!"

"I... what?"

He lets out a huff of incredulity, turning to face me. "What was the point of finding your old journal if you're not even going to read it?"

"My journal?"

"I'm sure it's all in there. How he started showing up wherever you were. Texting you dozens of times a day."

"That doesn't—"

"Calling you in the middle of the night to whisper weird, vague threats over the phone."

A trickle of fear starts to creep down my back. "Threats?"

"About how you'd better leave me alone, or you'd get what was coming to you."

"What was coming..." I raise a shaky hand to my scar, tracing it with my fingertips. "You think he was the..."

"No," he says grudgingly. "No, Sebastian didn't attack us, if that's what you're thinking." He folds his arms, looking defensive. "If he had, he would've gone after me, not you. As many times as you turned him down, he only ever wanted you more. He would've beaten the crap out of me to get the competition out of the way, but he wouldn't have laid a hand on you. Like I said, I know it was my fault."

"What was your fault?"

"The attack." He's looking at the couch, the wall, the door. Anywhere but at me.

"The..." I stare at him, stunned. "But I thought the police never found out who did it."

"They didn't."

"So how can you—"

"Who did you know?" he interrupts. "Think back to what you can remember of your high school years. Who did you know back then? Your family? Your friends in the Warblers?"

"Yeah? So?"

"Any other friends? Enemies? Anyone?"

"I..." I rack my brain, but come up empty. "No, I spent most of my time with my parents or the Warblers. But I don't see how—"

"We both know your parents didn't beat you within an inch of your life. And the Warblers were performing at a benefit in Columbus that night — with your precious Sebastian singing lead."

"He's not my—"

"You're _nice_," he says simply. "You're polite and friendly. Charming. You help old ladies cross the street. You're a fifties dreamboat who just happens to live in today's world. Everyone likes you, Blaine."

I gape at him in disbelief. "You think that just because people like me, you must have provoked the attackers somehow?"

"I'm..." He shakes his head, his chin starting to tremble. "Bitchy. Self-righteous. Judgmental. I hold grudges, and—"

"Stop. Just stop," I plead, my throat feeling unbearably tight. I step forward and pull him into a crushing hug, despite his faint noise of protest. "Even if all of that _were_ true, it _still_ wouldn't be your fault, Kurt... I can't believe you've spent the past year blaming yourself."

"It's not just me." His voice is so faint, it's hard to hear him.

I pull back, rubbing his shaking shoulders, even though I want to scream. "Let me guess. My parents."

"They're not wrong," he says brokenly, his head hanging. "Chances are, someone was trying to get back at me for something I did to them."

"Is that why you didn't fight for me, when my parents told you that you couldn't see me? Because you thought you deserved it?"

"They're not wrong," he protests again, weakly.

"They _are_ wrong." I grip his shoulders harder. "Look at me, Kurt... _Look_ at me." He raises his head slowly, two tears trailing down his cheeks. "All this time... you poor thing. So _what_ if you were bitchy? So what if you told some people things that they didn't want to hear? It still wouldn't justify what they did to us." He looks miserable, but he seems to be listening, for once. "And don't forget, they hurt me a lot worse than they hurt you—"

"Probably because you got in their way when they were aiming for me. You were always protective of me."

"Okay, well, maybe my protective streak was what set them off in the first place. Or maybe they didn't like seeing us together at school. Maybe they didn't like our promise rings. There are a million maybes, and none of them should have landed us in the hospital. We'll never know what set them off, but we can't blame ourselves for what happened. We just can't. Nothing we could have said or done would ever justify someone almost killing us. We were _victims_."

He studies me. "You told me once that I should refuse to be the victim."

I wipe his damp cheeks tenderly with my thumbs. "As an identity? Yeah, you should. We couldn't help being attacked, but we can choose how we live our lives now. And if we're always looking around corners, always setting aside our dreams out of fear, then we weren't just victims of our attackers last year. We're _still_ their victims."

"But we don't even know who they are," he reminds me. "They could _very well_ be lurking around the next corner."

"If they are, then we'll face them again. Together." I reach down to take his hands in mine. "Kurt... When I was at Scandals last night, I had a spell."

His eyes widen hopefully. "You remembered?"

"No. I didn't have to. I was up on the karaoke stage, singing an old Beatles song, and it just hit me."

"What did?"

"That I'm in love with you." Our clasped hands are trembling, and I can't tell which of us is causing it. "I really am. I love you whether you're being sweet and romantic, or bitchy and judgmental. I love every moment I spend with you. You don't have to try to impress me with fancy dates. It would be enough to curl up with you on the couch and watch those trashy reality shows you're so addicted to."

"The Real Housewives aren't trashy, they're misunderstood," he mumbles, his eyes growing bright again with tears.

"I don't love you because of who we used to be, I love you because of who we are now," I tell him earnestly. "I choose you, Kurt, and no one can convince me otherwise. Not the attackers, not my parents, not Sebastian. I chose you before the attack, I'm choosing you now, and I'll keep choosing you for as long as you'll let me." I let go of one of his hands to reach under my shirt, pulling out the chain with the promise ring attached. "That's why I went on the third date wearing this."

His breath catches when he sees the ring. "Blaine..."

"I followed your rules. I went on the three dates, and they're over. And I choose you. Do you choose me back?"

"I..." He stops, hiccuping out a sob. "Oh my god... of course I choose you. You've always been it for me."

"Even with my stinky feet?"

"Even with your stinky feet." He leans in to kiss me hard. Our teeth clack together hard because neither of us can stop smiling, and my cheeks get smeared with his fresh tears, and it's just perfect. He pulls back and looks at me with such naked affection. "I love you, Blaine."

I wonder how I felt, the first time Kurt ever told me he loved me. I wonder if it hit me as hard then as it does now. He leans in to kiss my jaw, then my neck, before pulling me tightly against him. We stand there for ages, holding each other. It's well past midnight and I'm so tired, but I'm afraid to let go. I'm afraid I might break the spell.

Eventually he pulls back, cradling my neck in his palm. "It's late."

My heart sinks. "Oh... yeah. You should—"

"Bed?" he asks, and I draw in a sharp breath. "To sleep," he laughs. "Don't worry, I know you're still a baby penguin."

"That metaphor needs to die," I say, blushing as I kiss his cheek.

We head into the bedroom together. I change into my pajamas while he's in the bathroom doing his skincare regimen. It feels good to get out of my sweater and into the soft flannel. When I pull my pants off, I notice the bulge of my cell phone in the front pocket. Pulling on the pajama bottoms quickly, I hurry to the bathroom, knocking on the door.

"Blaine, this face doesn't just _happen_," he says through the closed door. "If I don't moisturize properly—"

"Your dad," I call out. "He doesn't know that you're here. He was worried when you didn't come home tonight."

The door opens at once. "Phone?" he asks, and I press it into his palm. He dials his home number and holds the cell phone up to his ear, biting his lip anxiously. "Dad? It's me... I know, I'm sorry... I know... I know... I'm really... I know. I'm so sorry."

I make my way back into the bedroom to give him a little privacy. I notice my journal sitting on the table, and pick it up hesitantly. Maybe Kurt is right. Maybe I do need to read it. I've been so adamant that the past doesn't matter, just the present. But maybe there are things in here that I do need to know.

"I'm with Blaine, at the apartment. I'm going to sleep here tonight." He comes into the bedroom, still on the phone, and smiles at me shyly. "Yes, Dad... I know... I _know_, believe me. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" He sighs. "I know. I love you too. Night, Dad." He ends the call and hands me back my cell phone. "Thanks."

"No problem. Is he okay?"

"Yeah. Good thing you thought to call him. He'd been sitting up waiting for me."

"Was he always like that?"

"He was always protective, but it got way worse after the attack. I'm sure your parents were the same way." He looks at me thoughtfully. "Have you talked to them yet?"

"My parents? No. Not since... no."

"It's been a week."

"I know."

He doesn't say anything more, and he doesn't have to. I know how much Mom and Dad must be worrying. Anger and guilt battle inside of me, until Kurt reaches out to take my hand. "Why don't you get in bed. I'll finish up with my moisturizing and be right in."

"Okay." I watch as he disappears into the bathroom, then look back at my phone. Quickly, before I can change my mind, I send a quick text message to my father:_ I'm fine, don't worry. I'll be in touch soon._ The guilty pit in my stomach lessens a bit, and I set the phone on my nightstand before pulling back the sheets and slipping into bed. Almost immediately, the phone buzzes with a new message: _Thank you, Blaine. We'll wait to hear from you. We love you._ It's nearly one in the morning, and my parents normally go to bed by ten. I wonder if they've been sleeping with their cell phones.

"Do you want to borrow my toner?" Kurt calls from the bathroom.

"Uh... no thanks." I can hear him muttering to himself under his breath, and I smile. That's clearly an argument he's saving for another day. My cell phone buzzes again, and I pick it up to read the message. To my surprise, it's not from my dad. It's from Sebastian. _We need to talk._ I delete the message and lie back. Seconds later, it buzzes again with a new message: _You're making a big mistake._ I press the power button to turn off the cell phone, and watch as Kurt enters the room. "Did I pick the right side of the bed?" I ask.

He nods with delight. I hold out my arms, and he turns off the lights before climbing into bed and kissing me. Then he turns, letting me spoon him. I bury my nose in his hair sleepily.

"Blaine?" he whispers.

"Mm?"

"Thank you for choosing me." He threads our fingers together, holding them against his heart. "I was so afraid that you were coming back tonight to say goodbye, and that I'd never be able see you again."

"Impossible." I pull him closer, kissing his shoulder softly. "I'll never say goodbye to you."


	19. Chapter 19

_**A/N:** Big hugs to **ouranimallove** for looking this over before her vacation! She's awesome!_

_Please note that the rating has changed to M. I don't know exactly how "M" it will get, but regardless, if you're underaged please stop reading! xoxo _

* * *

><p>Waking up next to Kurt is nothing like I imagined.<p>

He must have turned over at some point during the night. He's been using my bicep as a pillow, so my entire arm is numb. My mouth tastes like I've been chewing on an old sock, and I'm fairly sure I have a raging boner. He shifts against me, burrowing closer, and now I'm _positive_ that I have a raging boner. It's all I can do not to moan aloud. I'm in desperate need of some mouthwash, and about five minutes locked in the bathroom with some lotion and my right hand. Except that I still can't _feel_ my right hand. I try wiggling my fingers, but that just makes Kurt stir.

"'aine?" he murmurs.

"Ssh, go back to sleep," I whisper, carefully extracting my arm from under him. He whimpers a little at the loss of body contact, which would make me feel bad except for the glorious relief of being able to feel my fingers. I'll just slip off to the bathroom, surely Kurt has a spare bottle of lotion in there—

"Mmm." He lets out a hum of contentment, wrapping his leg over my hip and bringing us flush together. Like... _flush _together. In an instant, I find that I'm not the only one with an erection. At this angle, we fit together snugly, and five minutes in the bathroom aren't necessary. A good sixty seconds would be sufficient. "Blaine," he sighs again, his leg tightening around me as his hips begin to move slowly against mine.

This is not good. As a gentleman, I need to put a stop to this right now. Kurt's not even fully conscious, and— "Ohh, god, right there," I groan as he grinds harder.

"You like that?" His voice is so low and sultry, raspy from sleep. "Y'like that, baby?"

"Guhh, yeah," I gasp. "Yeah, I like it."

He grasps my shoulder and rolls me onto my back, slotting his legs between mine and rutting in earnest. His eyes are still closed, but I think he's awake. I hope he's awake. "Feels so good," he says, kissing my neck sloppily and thrusting faster. "Fuck, Blaine."

There's that word again. That thing guys do in the bathroom at Scandals. That thing Kurt thought I did with Sebastian. That thing complete strangers can do to each other—

"Stop," I choke out. "Please, stop."

He freezes, his eyes opening slowly. Then they're wide, _so _wide, and he's scrambling off the bed in horror. "Oh my god, I'm sorry, I'm... oh, Blaine, I'm—"

"It's okay." I sit up awkwardly, pulling my knees up against my chest.

"It's not okay, I..." He covers his groin with both hands. I'd laugh at his expression if I weren't so thoroughly embarrassed. "I didn't realize it was you." My jaw drops, and he rushes to clarify, "I mean, I knew it was _you_, I just thought it was—"

"The _old_ me," I finish.

He nods miserably. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay. Really."

"You must think I'm some... some sexual predator."

"You're—" This time I do laugh, covering my face with my hands. "You're really not." I can feel the bed shift as he sits down gingerly on the other end. "Kurt... I do want to do things. With you." I peek at him from between my fingers, and he gives me a tentative nod, so I drop my hands into my lap. "I really do. It's just that I'm so new to all this. I just had my first kiss last week, in the hallway by your kitchen. This is all happening really fast, and I want to make sure that when we do _that_, we're both awake, and ready. And that it's not just... just _fucking_. I need it to mean something."

I expect him to look dejected, but instead there's a fond smile spreading across his face. "I'll never understand why you say you're bad at romance," he says.

"I _am _bad at—"

"You're the biggest romantic I know. Almost as big as me." He crawls back to lie on his stomach on his side of the bed, keeping a respectful distance between us. "We'll go as slow as you want. I promise. Even if you don't ever want to go any further than kissing."

"I do," I blurt out, then feel my cheeks grow warm. "At some point, I mean."

"Then we will. And when you have your first time, we'll make sure it's exactly how you imagined it would be. Because you did the same for me."

"I did?"

"Oh yeah. You were ready way before I was. But you waited, because you're a gentleman. You told me that's why they invented masturbation."

I'm really blushing now. "I _said_ that?"

"You did."

"Who did I think invented it?"

Kurt laughs. "I never thought to ask."

I sigh, straightening my legs and lying down on my side, watching him. "This part must be weird for you."

"You'll have to be more specific — a lot of this is weird for me."

"Well, the first time around, we were virgins together. And then we... _weren't_ virgins, together. You never had to worry about things like this."

He nods. "There's some adjustment, yeah. But there are some perks, too."

"Like what?"

"Like..." He folds his arms and rests his cheek on them, gazing at me. "You're not the same person anymore."

I furrow my brows in confusion. "How is that a perk?"

"When you first start dating someone, you start learning about them. Figuring out if you're compatible. Uncovering each other's little quirks and seeing if you find them adorable or repugnant."

"I still don't..."

"I got to fall in love again." He swallows. "After I lost you, I thought that was it for me. I thought I'd never get another chance at having something real. And then you showed up at the Lima Bean, and you were you, but not _you_, and I didn't know if we'd still fit together, but..." His smile is slow and genuine. "You're not the same person anymore. You're a different Blaine, and I'm in love with you. The you that you are now."

My throat feels so tight. I didn't realize how much I needed to hear this. "How can you tell?"

"When I was here yesterday, waiting for you, I kept thinking about what would happen if you suddenly got your memory back. Not those little spells here and there, but _everything_. I used to cling to that hope, that your memory would someday come rushing back and you'd be the same old Blaine that you were before the attack. But when I was sitting in here yesterday, looking around at our old photos, I finally realized that I fit better with you than I would with old Blaine. I'll always love him, but when I think about who I want to spend the rest of my life with, it's you, not him."

I swallow thickly. "That was my wish," I murmur.

"What?"

"When we were playing that _Getting To Know You _game, you asked me what one thing I'd wish for. That was what I wanted most — to know that you wanted to be with _me_. That you weren't just settling for close-enough. I wished for it so badly."

"Hmm," he says, his eyes bright. "Maybe I'm a genie after all."

My heart swelling, I lean over to kiss him softly once, then twice. Then I pull back abruptly. "Oh, god, my _breath_. I'm sorry."

He chuckles, smiling warmly at me. "One of those things you just get used to, after a while. You hungry?"

"Yeah."

"Breakfast?"

I nod, stealing another quick tight-lipped kiss. He hops out of bed and uses the bathroom for a few minutes while I grin dopily at the ceiling. He loves me. He loves _me. _

Once he's out and heading for the kitchen, I go into the bathroom, relieving myself before brushing my teeth vigorously. When I emerge, I notice my journal, still sitting on the little table by my bedroom door. I pick it up and bring it with me, whistling as I enter the kitchen.

"Today's special: Pop-Tarts aux fraises," Kurt says, handing me a plate and kissing my cheek. "Be careful, they're hot."

I grab a couple of glasses and fill them with milk before joining him at the table. We sit close together, eating and sneaking shy glances at each other. I notice the clock on the microwave and blink in surprise. "Hey, it's almost noon. Shouldn't you be at work?"

"Not today."

"But it's Monday..."

"My dad told me last night that I should take a few days off." He licks a bit of strawberry filling off his fingertip. "He said you needed me here more than he needed me there."

I smile gratefully. "I knew I liked him. Are we going to see him again soon?"

"Sure, if you want to." He nods toward my journal, which I left on the kitchen counter. "You planning to read that today?"

"I was thinking about it. But if you're going to be here—"

"No need to entertain me. I've actually got to work on my college essay."

"You're applying to college for next year?" I ask with delight. "I didn't know that."

He finishes his last bite of Pop-Tart, looking pleased. "I just decided last week. I mean, the main reason I stuck around here this year was in hopes that we'd find each other again."

"And now we have," I murmur, reaching out to hold his hand. "You know, I applied to five schools in New York."

"Really?"

"Yeah, my parents made me submit all of my applications by Thanksgiving. It was a pain at the time, but now I'm glad I got it over with. Where are you applying?"

"A bunch of places. My top choices are NYADA, NYU or Parsons, but I'd be happy at pretty much any of the schools. As long as I'm in New York."

"With me?"

"With you." He squeezes my hand. "God, it's going to be so amazing. We can get an apartment together — I mean, if you want to—"

"I want to."

"We can perform together at open mic nights... go window-shopping on Fifth Avenue... get rush tickets for Broadway shows... hold hands on the street without worrying about someone trying to—"

"It's going to be perfect," I interject, before he can finish. "But you've got to finish your applications before they can take you. Have you started the essay?"

He shrugs. "I had one. It was about music and fashion and... I thought it summed me up pretty well."

"So why not use it?"

"I thought I'd take a stab at writing about what we went through. Now that there's a happy ending."

I grin at him, waggling my eyebrows. "There is, isn't there."

Rolling his eyes fondly, he jumps up and plants a loud kiss on the top of my head. "Can I use the computer in our room?"

"Of course."

I watch as he leaves, then turn and look at the journal sitting on the counter. It seems silly to admit, but I know why I haven't wanted to read it before now. I was jealous of the old Blaine. I thought Kurt preferred him over me. Now that I know that Kurt loves _me_, I'm curious to see what's in there.

After clearing our dishes and stacking them in the dishwasher, I grab the journal and head into the living room. It's a little chilly in here, so I grab the blanket off the back of the couch and wrap it around myself.

The journal starts off really boring. Sorry, Old Blaine, but you're boring. He's talking about some research paper he has to write for World History, and how his right uppercut is coming along, and how Wes says the Warblers' arrangement of "Teenage Dream" needs better choreography—

But _oh_. I sit up straight.

There's a _spy_.

I smile broadly as I continue reading. Old Blaine feels sorry for the poorly-disguised spy. He talks about Kurt's troubles at school with some bully named David Karofsky, and his advice that Kurt should confront the guy.

I frown at the page. That's terrible advice. Old Blaine's an idiot.

I flip ahead, noticing how more and more pages are mentioning the name Kurt. There are doodles of birds and a heart with K+B in it (lame), and then a long, long description of their first kiss. I feel a sharp twist of jealousy in my gut, and have to remind myself that Kurt loves me. Me, me, me.

They're together for a long time before Sebastian gets mentioned:

_I went to Dalton today, to ask the guys if they'd come to McKinley to see me and Kurt in West Side Story. When I arrived, they were running through a nice rendition of Billy Joel's "Uptown Girl." Great energy and harmony, though their new soloist Sebastian's voice is a little too nasal for my taste. He and I are supposed to meet for coffee sometime, so he can ask me about leading the Warblers. Not sure how I can help — I was never a member of the Council. But hey, once a Warbler, always a Warbler._

Sebastian starts to pop up more often. He meets Kurt and Old Blaine at Scandals, which goes pretty terribly. He keeps hitting on Old Blaine, and I can't quite tell if Old Blaine likes it. But then he and Kurt make love—

I stop and glare at the page for a while. Then I skip the next five pages, because the word "lube" does not need to be mentioned that many times.

Kurt wanders into the living room in the late afternoon, while I'm engrossed in a section about his campaign for senior class president. He leans over the couch, kissing my forehead, lips, nose, lips, cheek, chin, lips, lips...

"Just pay me back, with one thousand kisses," he sings, and my eyes widen.

"Did we sing that? Together?"

"You remember?"

"No, I just... always said I wanted to sing that duet with the man I loved."

"We did. We sang it a lot." He leans down again, and I kiss him back slowly, savoring the slide and pull of our lips. Somehow I don't think this feeling will ever get old. "Stop distracting me, I need to work on my essay," he whispers, nibbling at my bottom lip.

"Then go away," I shoot back, my tongue darting out to lick his lips. He groans and kisses me again before pulling back.

"Maybe I should write my essay about what it's like to kiss you."

"Make sure you mention my morning breath from earlier."

He snickers, waving as he heads back to the bedroom.

I turn back to the journal, thumbing past a lot of love-sick drivel (really, Old Blaine, who says the word _twitterpated_ anymore?) until the name Sebastian starts popping up again. He's started texting Old Blaine, asking him out. Old Blaine flat-out says he's in love with Kurt and not interested in dating Sebastian. Then it starts getting really interesting.

_...Sebastian texted me fifteen times today. He keeps telling me I'm making a mistake, choosing Kurt over him..._

_...Sebastian sent me a naked text of himself this morning. I almost sent a reply telling him that Kurt is several inches longer, but that wouldn't have been polite..._

_...Kurt's getting upset about how often Sebastian is texting and emailing me. I told Sebastian to stop, but so far he's not listening. Not sure how to get through to him..._

_...Last night, my cell phone rang at 2:14 AM. It was Sebastian. When I answered, he whispered, "Leave him alone, or you'll get what's coming to you." It was really unsettling. Kurt slept through it, and I haven't told him about it yet. Maybe Sebastian was just drunk. Some people act pretty stupid when they're drunk. (I kissed a girl, I should know)..._

_...I finally told Kurt about the middle-of-the-night calls from Sebastian. There were five last week alone. Whenever I answer, I try telling him to stop calling me, but he just whispers creepy threats into the phone. Kurt thinks I should talk to the police. I tried asking Dad to have AT&T block Sebastian's number, but he just said the Smythes are a well-connected family. Like that should even matter..._

"I'm bored."

I look up to find Kurt standing over me. "What?"

"I'm booored," he pouts.

"What about the essay?"

He lifts up the blanket and curls up next to me. My arms go around him automatically as he nestles his face in the crook of my neck. "It's too hard to write. I keep trying, but I'm not getting anywhere."

"So you're going to use the old one after all?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'll try again tomorrow. I'm too distracted today."

"By what?"

"Your collarbone." He leans forward to nip at it, and I laugh, poking his side.

"My collarbone wasn't in the room with you. How exactly did it distract you?" He doesn't answer, his mouth too busy sucking on my neck. He's good at that. Really, really good. My ragged breaths start coming faster as he licks and sucks and whimpers softly against my skin. All too soon, I can feel a familiar tightening in my stomach, and pull back reluctantly.

He looks up at me, his lips looking rosy and delicious. "Too much?"

"A little," I admit.

"K." He presses a quick kiss to my cheek before jumping up off the couch. "We should get ready anyway."

"For what?"

"I have to pick up my phone in Lima, and Carole sent me an email inviting us to join them for dinner. If you want to."

"Of course!" If nothing else, it'll be nice to prove to them that I can eat a meal without breaking down in tears. "At their house, or a restaurant?"

He shrugs. "Depends on whether Finn's there. He always wants to go to Breadstix."

"What's Breadstix?"

"Lima's version of the Olive Garden. You still in?"

"Sure, just give me time to shower and shave."

He smirks and opens his mouth, then shuts it abruptly, his eyes wide. "Okay."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Kurt."

"It's nothing."

"You were about to suggest that we shower together, weren't you."

"I..." He sighs. "I'm sorry. Old habits die hard."

"It's okay. I'm sure I'll get there one day." We smile at each other awkwardly. "I'll take Rob's shower, you can use our bathroom."

"Thanks."

I grab some clothes from the bedroom dresser before heading for Rob's bathroom. Just before I turn on the shower, I can faintly hear Kurt turn on the other one. My mind flashes to an image of him, naked and wet and lathering up his gorgeous body with a soapy loofah...

Groaning from hours of pent-up arousal, I climb under the rhythmic shower spray. The water is hot, and in the steamy shower stall it's easy to imagine Kurt standing behind me, thrusting up against my ass firmly. It only takes a few pulls before I'm grunting and coming hard against the wall, my knees shaking with the force of it. I rinse it off and rest my forehead against the tiled wall, catching my breath and wondering if _one day _might be coming sooner than I think.


	20. Chapter 20

_**A/N:** __Many thanks and much love to **ouranimallove** and **guiltyphandiot** for their beta assistance! You two rock my socks!_

* * *

><p>Kurt spends much of the drive to Lima using my cell phone to text back and forth with his stepbrother, giving him strict instructions on what to wear. "You wouldn't believe how often Finn shows up in something that clashes with my outfit," he tells me, pausing only to take a sip from his Evian bottle. "It's like every time I wear rose or mauve, he just <em>has <em>to wear a rusty orange. And then we invariably end up sitting next to each other, and the eyesore, my god, the _eyesore_..."

I drift in and out of the conversation, nodding absently as I drive. The night is cold, and there's patches of black ice to look out for. But more than anything, I'm thinking.

_Kurt and I used to have sex. _

_We used to have sex a lot. _

_He knows what I look like naked. _

_He's seen and touched and probably tasted my—_

"You all right?" he asks.

"Fine," I choke out. I can feel a blush traveling up my neck, and hope he can't see it.

I know the basic mechanics of sex. But with two guys, how do they decide who is the bottom, and who is the top? Which would I have been with Kurt? What if I don't _want_ to be that one anymore? Will Kurt still want me if I suddenly ask to switch? What if he pretends to be okay with it, but he's secretly disappointed?

"You sure? Your face looks weird. Are you too warm? Do you want my water?" He holds out his bottle, but I shake my head.

"Yeah, no, I'm fine. Thanks. Fine."

We spend the rest of the drive in silence, except when Kurt quietly tells me when to turn. He keeps looking at me. I wonder what he's thinking.

We arrive at Breadstix early and decide to wait for Kurt's family outside. He leans against the brick exterior of the building, still sipping from his Evian. I'm trying not to stare at his full red lips, sucking at the mouth of the bottle, so I shift my gaze downward instead. He's so long and lithe, with legs that seem to go on forever. What did he use those legs for? Did they brace against the footboard, or wrap around my waist? Still fighting my blush, I lean against the wall too, trying to recall that flash of memory I had last week in Kurt's bedroom. I remember that he and I were naked in his bed, for sure, but I can't seem to figure out who was inside of—

"Okay, spill it." Kurt's staring at me intently. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's—"

"Don't do that. We have to be honest with each other. You've been acting strange ever since we left the apartment. Did you not want to come to dinner with my family?"

"No, of course I wanted to come. I like your family."

"Was it because of earlier? On the couch? Did I push you too far?"

"No, you—"

"Just tell me. I can handle it." He sits and waits, while I work up the nerve to ask him the question. He's just taken another drink of water when I speak up.

"When we had sex, was I the top or the bottom?"

He chokes, coughing hard and dribbling water all over his coat. It takes a good minute or so for him to stop coughing, and by then we can see his family walking up from the parking lot. Kurt leans closer to me, wiping his chin and hissing, "We'll talk about this later." I nod weakly as Carole reaches us first.

"You shouldn't have waited out here," she says, pulling us both into a tight three-way hug. "The parking lot is so poorly lit... and besides, it's much warmer inside the restaurant."

"It's okay." Kurt's cheeks are a flaming red. "The cold is kind of refreshing."

"I thought you said cold air was bad for your skin," Finn pipes up, towering over all of us, and Kurt glares at him.

"Seriously? You never remember any of my skincare advice, and _now _you—"

"Let's go inside," Carole says, smiling brightly. "I'm dying for a glass of red wine." She links arms with Kurt and leads him into the restaurant. Finn is right behind them.

I'm about to follow when I feel a hand squeeze my shoulder. I turn to see Burt standing beside me, his eyes bright. "Can't tell you how nice it is to see the two of you together again," he says.

We walk into the restaurant together, and although his hand leaves my shoulder after a moment, I can still feel its warmth.

The hostess grabs several menus and leads us to a booth in the center of the restaurant. Kurt and I slide into one side, Burt and Carole into the other, while Finn pulls up a chair to sit at the end. "This your first time back to Breadstix?" Burt asks me, and I nod.

"You've gotta try the breadsticks," Finn says eagerly, pushing the container toward me. "They're really bad."

I throw a questioning look at Kurt, then take a breadstick from the canister with a shrug.

Kurt sighs. "They're always stale, no matter when you get them. How is that even possible?" He takes one too, attempting to nibble on it daintily. I have to look away after a moment, because I've had way too many images of Kurt's lips wrapped around long, cylindrical objects tonight.

"Maybe we should've had dinner at home tonight," Carole murmurs, frowning. She seems distracted, looking around the restaurant. Maybe she's expecting to see someone she knows here. "Seems a shame to finally have the whole family back together again and be eating stale breadsticks... I could have made pot roast at the house. You all love my pot roast."

"Come on, Mom, we haven't been here in weeks," Finn says. "We'll have your pot roast tomorrow night." He stops and considers. "Unless Sarah forgives me by then and I can go back to her apartment. In that case, you'll have to do dinner without me."

"What'd you do this time?" Kurt asks him.

"Nothing."

"Finn."

"Well, it was her birthday last week..."

"Don't tell me you forgot."

"I _did_ _not _forget. I totally remembered..."

"Okay..."

"... the next day," Finn admits. Kurt throws up his hands and starts berating him, so I lean forward to talk to Carole.

"I love your blouse," I tell her. "It really brings out the color of your eyes. Where did you get it?"

"Actually, Kurt picked it out for me," she replies. "How did you two do on the drive down? Were the roads okay? Any black ice?"

"Not too bad," I reply. "How about you?"

"Oh, fine."

"Um... so..." I drop my voice a little lower. "I just wanted to thank you for your hospitality last night. I know I sort of crashed your family dinner, and—"

"Blaine," she interrupts. "You've been a part of this family for a long time. We'll always have room for you at our table."

I think, suddenly, of my own family dinners, with Dad carving the meat while Mom and I clap for him. They seem so stiff and formal in comparison. "I'm sorry about the waterworks, too," I say, even more quietly. "I almost never cry, I don't know what got into me."

Carole reaches across the table to squeeze my hand briefly. "You were worried about Kurt. And every single person at that table knew exactly what you were feeling. If Kurt hadn't called last night, we probably would have reported him missing."

"Really?"

"It's... I can't even explain to you what it's like to have a child, an extension of yourself out there in the world. You want to protect them every minute of the day, but you just can't. It was tough enough when I just had Finn, but Kurt is so much more vulnerable." Her eyes grow glassy, and she swallows hard. "That night... the night you two were attacked..."

"You don't have to—"

"It's every parent's worst nightmare." She clears her throat, then takes a deep breath. "Burt and I can't help but worry, even now. We've tried to move forward, for Kurt, but certain things are still really tough — like letting several hours go by without hearing from him, or going to a public place and wondering if the attackers are nearby. "

I glance around then, too. It never occurred to me that with the attack happening in Lima, Carole is right — it's more than likely that our attackers were locals.

"Okay, sorry about that. Someone had to advocate for the poor girl." Kurt has evidently finished admonishing Finn, and he leans toward us curiously. "What'd I miss?"

Carole seems flustered, so I jump in. "I was just complimenting her on that lovely blouse," I supply. "She said she had some help picking it out."

"Doesn't it make the green in her eyes pop?" he sighs. "What can I say, I live with a real-life muse."

"Yeah right." She laughs, snorting indelicately. "Ooh, I almost forgot—" She roots around in her purse, then pulls out Kurt's cell phone and hands it to him. "Do you have a charger at Rob's apartment?"

"Yup, I'm all set. Thanks so much." He slips the phone into his pocket, then opens a menu to share with me, pointing out the various entrees. "Okay, so you're safe with any of these pasta dishes, but I'd stay away from the beef if I were you. Finn got really sick the last time he got a cheeseburger here."

"Exploded from both ends," Finn calls over helpfully.

"You also get either a soup or a salad with your meal. Their minestrone soup is pretty good."

"Oh..." I shake my head. "I'm actually not a fan of minestrone."

Finn peers at me over his menu. "Since when? You always get the minestrone here."

"Sometimes people's tastes can change after a brain trauma," I tell him.

"Seriously?"

"According to my doctor."

"Weird."

We place our orders with the waitress and sit in a strange sort of silence. Finn is texting someone on his cell phone, Burt is munching on breadsticks, and Carole is still looking around at the other patrons in the restaurant. She seems to be focusing her attention on the back corner behind me. When I turn to look, I see a table of college-aged guys in football jackets.

"I'm going to the bathroom," Kurt announces. "I'll be right back."

He gets up and heads for the back of the room. I turn to Finn, who seems like my best bet for conversation, but before I can ask him anything, Carole says, "Finn, go use the bathroom."

"But I don't need to pee—"

"_Now._"

He scurries off after Kurt, and we sit in silence again. I concentrate on drinking my water, trying to ignore the worry gnawing at my stomach. What's going on?

In another minute, Kurt comes marching back, looking furious as Finn hurries after him. "This again?" he demands, standing by the table with his hands on his hips. "Are you serious? I thought we'd finally gotten past this nonsense."

"Kurt, sit down," Burt says, looking at the corner table with a frown. "The food is gonna come soon."

"I'm nineteen years old. I don't need a _bathroom buddy_—"

"Kurt, please," Carole pleads. "You're making a scene."

I look around, but no one seems to be paying us much attention. Then I catch sight of a familiar figure, sitting at a booth on the far wall. He's watching us with dark eyes, sipping at a soda and ignoring the girl sitting across from him. I look away and try to ignore the flutter of unease in my stomach.

What is that guy from Scandals doing here?

Kurt finally sits down next to me with a harrumph, and Carole manages to perk him up with a conversation about what sort of haircut she should get at the salon this week. Kurt's in his element, talking about highlights and layers and the value of a good mousse, so I sneak another peek over at the guy. Dave, I think. He's still watching us, his jaw set tightly.

All of a sudden, a wave of nausea hits me. I feel like I'm going to be sick. "I need to use the restroom," I murmur to Kurt. He slides out of the booth, then points me in the direction of the men's room. Carole doesn't insist on a bathroom buddy for me, I guess, because Finn doesn't follow after me.

I enter the bathroom and stand in front of a sink, gripping the sides of the porcelain. My reflection in the mirror looks pale and drawn. Turning the old knob on the sink, I run the cold water, cupping my hands under the faucet and splashing some handfuls onto my face. It helps with the nausea, thankfully. I breathe deeply and straighten up, catching the reflection of Dave standing right behind me.

"Jesus!" I spin around, flustered. He steps closer, lurking over me. "What do you want?"

"Why did you come here?" he asks through gritted teeth. "You don't belong here. This is _my _town."

"It's my boyfriend's town, too, he lives—"

"You don't deserve him."

"What?"

"You had your chance with Kurt, and you forgot about him. You shouldn't get to have him back." His hands fold into fists, and I back up against the cold sink behind me. "It should be _me_ out there with them. _Me _making nice with his family, _me _going home with him afterwards."

I gape at him. "You... you know Kurt?"

His nostrils flare as he takes another step closer. I want to scream or run, but my legs feel weighted down and it's a struggle just to breathe. "Listen very carefully," he says, but whatever he starts to say is interrupted as the bathroom door bangs open.

"Oops, door's lighter than I thought." Finn is standing there, wearing a sheepish smile. "Mom wanted me to check on you," he says to me. "You feeling okay?"

"Yeah," I murmur, shaken.

"Hey, Karofsky, what's up?" he nods, and I feel the world start to shift under my feet.

Karofsky.

Dave is _David Karofsky_.

I grip the sink behind me harder. No one says anything, and the silence seems to clue Finn in that something is wrong. He opens his mouth hesitantly. "You sure you're okay?"

"Uh... not feeling so hot," I admit. Finn frowns with concern, coming over and leading me out of the bathroom. I don't dare look behind me to see if Dave is following us. "I need some air," I tell Finn, walking fast toward the front door. Then I'm outside, breathing in deep lungfuls of freezing cold air as fear and fury wage a battle inside my chest. I've been out here a couple of minutes when I hear someone approaching.

"Blaine?" Kurt walks up, cocking his head. "Finn said you're not feeling well. What's wrong?" He puts a hand on my forehead, then my cheek. "You don't feel warm... but you're shaking all over, honey, you must be cold—"

"You dated Dave Karofsky?" I demand. His face falls, giving me a clear answer. "Seriously? The guy who bullied and sexually harassed you in high school? I read all about it in my journal. That guy made every day at school a living hell for you. You had to transfer to Dalton just to get away from him."

"I know..."

The door swings open again, but it's just Finn, coming to lurk awkwardly a few yards away from us. I guess he's a parking lot buddy tonight, too. "Everything okay?" he calls.

"No, Finn, everything is _not _okay," I say, digging my hands into my hair, scraping my thumbnail against my scar. "I just found out that Kurt tried to replace me with the guy who roughed me up last week, so excuse me if I need a minute to process everything."

"Wait, _what_?" Kurt looks stunned. "What happened?"

"I tried talking to him at Scandals, and he shoved me up against the bar."

"Dave did? Did... did he hurt you?"

"No, he—"

Finn turns on his heel, sprinting back into Breadstix. "Oh no," Kurt breathes, grabbing my hand and pulling me after him. By the time we make it into the restaurant, I can see Finn hauling Dave out of his seat by the collar of his jacket. The girl across from him is protesting, and Carole and Burt are getting to their feet in alarm, but Finn doesn't seem to notice any of that.

"Did you lay a hand on him last week?" he demands. "Did you shove Blaine?"

Dave lifts his hands. "Whoa, calm down, Finn—"

But Finn is far too furious to calm down. He drags Dave outside to the parking lot, swatting away Kurt's attempts to stop him. "You picked on my brother in high school," he fumes. "You're picking on Blaine now... what exactly do you—" His eyes widen slowly. "Oh my god. It was _you_."

"What?"

"_You_ attacked them last year."

"I—"

Finn's fist flies out, connecting hard with Dave's cheek. "You son of a _bitch_. You could have _killed _them—" He punches him twice more before I reach him, throwing my arm around Finn's waist and holding him back.

"Finn!" Carole cries, running out with Burt on her heels.

"Stop," I mutter firmly into his ear. "_Stop_. It wasn't him."

"He was threatening you in the bathroom, wasn't he? I thought something was weird when I came in—"

"He didn't attack us, Finn. I promise."

He's still breathing hard and glaring at Dave, who's doubled over, clutching his head defensively. "You don't know that," Finn says.

"I do know."

"How?"

"Because he's in love with Kurt."

"What?"

"He's in_ love _with_ Kurt_." I can feel the shift in Finn's body as he considers what I'm saying. "Think about how badly Kurt was injured in the attack. You couldn't do that to someone you loved. Dave hates me, yeah, but he would never have laid a hand on Kurt."

It's silent in the parking lot, but for Dave's harsh breaths. Finn finally lifts his hands in surrender, and I let go of him. We're still standing there when Dave's dinner companion comes out, wearing her jacket and a stormy expression.

"Let's go," she says to him abruptly.

Dave straightens up, one hand on his cheek. "Cassie—"

"I don't want to hear it, Dave," she snaps. "I have never been so humiliated in all my life." She marches off into the parking lot, and after a quick glance at Kurt, Dave hurries after her.

Finn and I turn back to Kurt and his parents, who are watching us with inscrutable expressions.

"Finn, ride with Kurt and Blaine to our house," Carole says tightly. "I'll get our server to wrap our dinner up to go."

"Mom—"

"Don't argue with me." She looks at Burt. "You'll walk them to their car?"

"Of course." He wraps his arm around Kurt's shoulders. "Finn, you've got Blaine."

"Yeah."

Kurt looks close to tears. "Dad—"

"It's not your fault, bud. Let's just get you home."


	21. Chapter 21

_**A/N:** __Many thanks to **ouranimallove** and **guiltyphandiot** for their beta assistance! Mwah!_

* * *

><p>We don't speak on the drive to Kurt's house.<p>

I'm overwhelmed. There are so many emotions coursing through my veins, it's all I can do to keep the car moving in the right direction. The night is pitch black, and I keep slamming on the brake when I think I see shadows fluttering just beyond my headlights.

I pull into the Hummels' driveway and don't move. All I want to do right now is climb up to the shelf in the closet of my bedroom, and pull my knees against my chest to make myself as small as possible. Going home still isn't an option, though — I can't face my parents yet. But at the same time, I can't possibly sit at Kurt's kitchen table and make small talk with his family. Still, I know that if I leave him here and go back to Rob's apartment alone, he'll be devastated. I have three different options, and yet no options at all.

"Come on," Kurt says finally. "Let's go inside."

"Kurt—"

"Just trust me," he murmurs.

We all trudge toward the house. Finn and Kurt strip off their coats and hang them up on the hooks. I try keeping mine on, but Kurt extends his arm and won't drop it until I hand my coat to him. He hangs it neatly beside his, then takes my hand, whispering, "I want to show you something."

He leads me down the hall of the little house, coming to a stop near the back door. I glance around, but it's just an empty hallway. Then he reaches up to the ceiling, pushing back a panel I hadn't noticed above our heads. An old ladder descends automatically, coming to rest on the floor.

"It's not the same as your closet," he says. "But it might help."

I stare at him, dumbfounded. "How did you—"

"Things weren't always perfect, even before the attack. I got pretty good at recognizing when you needed to cocoon yourself somewhere." He gestures up the ladder. "Try it out."

Propriety would probably dictate that I should invite him up with me, but I don't. Instead, I ascend the ladder slowly, until I find myself in a tiny, dusty attic crawlspace. It's freezing up here. I can't fully stand up, and there are so many boxes that I can't move more than a few feet in any direction.

It's perfect.

I crawl away from the ladder, stopping beside a couple of boxes labeled _Summer Clothing_. I can't locate a light fixture, but it's just as well. The darkness suits my mood.

Downstairs, there's the sound of the front door opening, then Carole's anxious voice calling out. Kurt answers her, and I'm glad I'm unable to make out their conversation. I can't imagine how rude she must think I am, hiding up here when they've just treated me to dinner. Burt joins them, his voice a low murmur, and my cheeks flush with color. Last night I wept all over their dinner table. Tonight I've sequestered myself away in their house.

So much for impressing Kurt's family.

The low voices continue, and despite the soothingly tight confines of the space, I feel unsettled. All too soon, I can hear footsteps as someone approaches the base of the ladder. There's heavy footfalls up the ladder, and a head of brown hair pokes up from the opening.

"Are you my attic buddy now?" I ask without humor, as Finn climbs out unsteadily, using his left hand for balance.

"Dinner," he says, holding up two foil containers in his right hand.

"I'm not hungry."

"Cool, then I'll eat yours when I finish mine." He plops down next to me and peels open the lid of his container. The smell of chicken fingers and french fries is actually pretty mouth-watering. I try to remember whether I've eaten anything other than a Pop-Tart today, but then I start remembering stale breadsticks and cold water and a figure looming over me—

"I don't even remember what I ordered," I admit, trying to distract myself..

Finn cracks open the lid of the second container. "Looks like chicken parm. Over spaghetti." He brandishes a fork and knife and raises his eyebrows until I accept them.

Sighing in concession, I pick up the foil container and open it, releasing an enticing aroma of garlic and tomatoes. We eat quietly, side by side, until the ache in my stomach starts to lessen. "So, who made you come up here?" I ask, spearing a glob of mozzarella. "Your mom?"

"Actually, I volunteered."

"You did?"

He crams a handful of french fries in his mouth and wipes his palms on his jeans. "Was afraid you'd find these," he says, and reaches past me to grab a stack of magazines. I furrow my brow in confusion until I catch a glimpse of some of the covers.

"You read porn up here?" I ask, aghast.

"Uh... I wouldn't call it reading. I just look at the pictures. And... you know."

"Great."

"I didn't want you to find the magazines and get all upset."

I squint at him. "Boobs don't upset me."

"No?"

"No. I don't find them appealing, but they're not _upsetting_." Unlike the thought that I'm probably sitting on Finn's dried fluids right now.

"Cool." He leans back against a stack of boxes and pops the last chicken finger in his mouth. "More than anything, I used to come up here when I needed to be alone."

"Don't you have your own room here?"

"Yeah, but..." He shrugs. "Kurt's recovery after the attack took a while. Sometimes it got kind of loud downstairs."

"I don't understand. He said he wasn't injured that badly—"

"I'm not talking about a physical recovery."

"Oh." I look down at my half-eaten dinner and set it aside, my appetite gone. He sets his aside too, and for several minutes, the only sound is the faint murmur of Kurt and his parents talking downstairs.

"I wish you wouldn't be mad at Kurt," Finn says quietly. "Things were bad after the attack, and even worse after you forgot him. It's been really hard for him."

"I'm not mad at Kurt."

"Who, then?" he asks. "Karofsky?"

"Myself, Finn," I tell him, and he blinks at me in confusion. "Did you know that I've been a boxer for years?"

"Uh... yeah, actually, I do remember that."

"I got beaten up at my public school in Westerville, back when I was a freshman. After that, my parents enrolled me in self-defense classes so that I could learn to protect myself. I ended up really loving boxing. They put a punching bag in my basement and I used to spend hours down there, working on my right hook and my uppercut."

"I don't understand..."

"My boyfriend and I were attacked and almost killed in our high school's parking lot last year," I say, my voice shaking. "A stranger shoved me up against a bar last week. And tonight, that same guy threatened me again." I wrap my arms around my knees, squeezing them tight. "My dad used to tell me _One time is an accident, two times is a coincidence, three times is a pattern. _Well, this is clearly a pattern: someone threatens my safety, and I can't fight back. I can't even _move_."

"So you're mad that you froze up tonight and I had to punch Karofsky for you," he deduces.

"I'm mad because there was no point to all those lessons, all that practicing, if I can't even defend myself when push comes to shove."

Finn fiddles with his shoelace, looking pensive. "Well maybe that's because pushing and shoving aren't your thing. Your first instinct isn't to hurt someone. That's not a bad thing."

"It is when you're facing someone whose first instinct is to hurt _you_."

He nods sadly. Then he gives me a wry smile. "You know, Kurt took a self-defense class, back when we were in high school."

"He did?" That surprises me, for some reason.

"Yeah. Burt was convinced that he was too much of a target for bullies, so he brought home a brochure with all these different courses offered at the community college, and made Kurt pick one. After the semester was over, Burt asked him to demonstrate what he'd learned for the three of us."

"And?"

"And let's just say he knew a lot of different ways to twirl sai swords." He and I grin at each other widely. Now _that _does not surprise me. "Burt couldn't even be mad. Kurt was walking around the room singing songs from _Man of La Mancha_, and spinning the swords all around, and I thought I was gonna pee in my pants, I was laughing so hard."

"That's my Kurt."

We sit there for a while, listening to the faint noises of clinking dishes, until Finn speaks up. "He needs you, you know."

"I know," I sigh.

"It's special, what you guys have. Not everyone gets that chance." He frowns. "I thought I had something like that once."

"With Sarah?"

"Sarah? No, she's... no. It was a while ago. I thought she might be the one."

"What happened?"

"You know how when things got bad, Kurt gave up his dream to wait here for you?"

"Yeah..."

Finn shrugs. "Turned out her dream was more important to her than I was."

I try not to look pitying, but I know I must be failing. "I'm really sorry. That sucks."

"It did suck. But life goes on, you know?"

The sliding squeak of chairs sounds from downstairs, and I know that Kurt and his parents must have finished eating. Finn looks at me curiously. "I'd go down there," I tell him, "but I'm afraid your parents might hate me."

"My parents could never hate you," he says, looking at me like I'm nuts.

"I've brought all this drama back into their lives—"

"You don't get it, Blaine," he interrupts. "Mom and Burt used to say that when Kurt and I were sixteen, they suddenly found themselves with two sons, and when we were seventeen, they suddenly had three." He shakes his head. "You're acting like you've been a rude guest or something. I get that you don't know us, but _we_ all know _you_. We all consider you a part of the family. So it doesn't matter if you cry during dinner or storm out of a restaurant or whatever. My parents will always love you."

My throat feels tight. I cover up my thick swallows by straightening his stack of magazines. "I need him, too, you know."

"Well, obviously. You two are Kurt-and-Blaine. Can't have Kurt-and-Blaine without both Kurt and Blaine."

Somehow, that almost makes sense to me.

* * *

><p>I descend the ladder first, while Finn replaces his porn collection in the corner. Then he follows me down to the ground floor. I help him push the ladder back up, but I'm too short to help him push the ceiling panel back in place. The sounds from the kitchen have ceased, and I know that Kurt and his parents must be listening to us. I hesitate, but Finn just pats my shoulder and heads in first. I'm grateful for the gesture. When the stakes are high, it always seems easier to follow than to lead.<p>

Burt and Carole are standing by the kitchen table, while Kurt has his sleeves rolled up and his hands in a sinkful of sudsy dishes.

"Dessert?" Carole asks, when she sees us. "I bought an Entenmann's pound cake the other day. And I bet we have some ice cream."

"There's a basketball game on tonight," Burt says. "We could all watch it if you—"

I step forward and hug him hard, breaking off whatever he was going to say. He freezes for a moment, then hugs me back gently, his hands splaying across my back. "Thank you," I say to him softly. I pull back, and he just nods, his eyes bright. Then I turn to Carole, who is already starting to reach for me. We squeeze each other tight, and she ruffles the back of my hair. "Thank you, Carole."

When I turn to Kurt, he's already drying off his hands.

"Can you guys—"

"We'll finish up," Burt assures him, and Kurt takes my hand, leading me down the hall to his bedroom.

Once we're inside, Kurt shuts the door, and I open my mouth to speak. He's too quick, though, pulling me into a tight embrace. We stand there together for what feels like hours, holding each other. "Are you okay?" he asks, and I nod silently. We sway back and forth, and it almost feels like dancing.

I open my eyes slowly, focusing in on the wall of photographs in front of me. There are dozens of shots of the two of us. Singing, dancing, laughing, kissing...

"I want to be up there," I say, and Kurt pulls back, blinking at me inquisitively.

"Up where?"

"On your wall." I gesture toward the photos. "It's all pictures of you and Old Blaine. I want to be up there."

He thinks for a moment, then his face lights up. "Hold that thought."

I immediately regret saying anything, because he's darted out of the room and my arms are suddenly empty and cold, my fingers curling inward as though to keep his warmth with me. But he's back before too long, holding an old Polaroid camera.

"I've got enough film for twenty photos," he says. "Do you want to take them all now, or do some—"

"All now," I blurt out. Old Blaine's smile is beaming down at me smugly, and I want to block out his face with my own.

Kurt's arms are longer than mine, so he takes the pictures. I suppose we could call Burt or Carole in to play photographer, but this feels much more intimate. We press our faces together and make pose after pose as Kurt calls out directions. "Look happy! Seductive! Powerful! Now look confused! Now sneaky! Horrified!"

I'm fairly sure I'm just grinning in all of them.

When the twenty photos have been taken, we lay them out on Kurt's bed, watching them develop. And then we laugh, loudly and riotously, because Kurt is just grinning in all of them, too.

I reach up to unpin a photo from his wall, but he stops me. "Those stay up there."

"You love _me_," I remind him — and myself — stubbornly. Me, me, me.

"Yes. But without him, there'd be no you."

He works quickly, moving the location of some of the old photos and filling their gaps with our new Polaroid portraits. By the time he's finished, the photos have spread far enough to lick the corners of his room, and it feels like more than an array of snapshots. It looks like a life up there. And he's achieved something else, too, either on purpose or by serendipity. Every area where there is a gathering of Old Blaine and Old Kurt pictures, one of today's Blaine and Kurt is there, too, smiling in the center as if to say "We see you there, so happy and in love. And here we are, too."

Due to the lateness of the hour, the sheen of ice on the roads and the fatigue in our bones, we agree to spend the night here. Kurt assures me that his parents won't mind if we share a bed, but I get him to confirm with them anyway. He sits at his vanity, going through his nightly skincare ritual, while I thumb through a copy of _The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time _that I spotted on his bookshelf.

"I love this book," I tell him. "One of my all-time favorites." He smiles sadly, and even before I check the inside cover, I know that I'll find an inscription in there. I'm right. _To Kurt_— _I would brave the most fearsome trains and strangers to find you, too. —Blaine_

I set the book aside, still rankled by the inane jealousy of my former self. "Tell me something that he never knew," I say to Kurt.

"Who?"

"Old Blaine. Tell me a secret you never dared to tell him."

He pauses, holding a cotton ball doused in toner, and thinks. "I was always afraid that I loved him more than he loved me."

That's not at all what I expected him to say. And it doesn't really make me feel any better.

I ask to borrow something to sleep in, and he gestures toward the bottom of his dresser. I pull out a faded tee shirt and flannel pajama pants, then excuse myself to go change in the bathroom. It's only after I've pulled off my jeans that I think to check my cell phone for any missed calls. There are four new text messages from Sebastian:

8:11 PM — _I wish you'd talk to me. Please, all I want to do is talk._

8:45 PM — _Call me when you get a chance. We can hang out. Go shopping. Get coffee. See what happens._

9:56 PM — _Just opened the best bottle of wine ever. Come over and share it with me._

10:48 PM — _Im soo fcking hard wish u where here want to fucku_

My face is beet red as I delete the texts from my phone and sit down on the edge of the bathtub. I'm ashamed to find my arousal stirring after reading that last text. How can I resent Kurt's affection for Old Blaine, when I'm getting turned on by someone who used to sexually harass me?

_Because Kurt was in love with Old Blaine_, I remind myself. _You're a hormonal teenaged boy, and you're just flattered by Sebastian's attention, that's all. You know you'd rather cuddle with Kurt in your pajamas than have sweaty monkey sex with Sebastian. _

I head back to Kurt's room, hoping he won't notice that I'm half-hard. By the smirk on his face, though, I know he has.

"That reminds me," he says, coating his fingers with a thick white moisturizer. "You have to promise me never to say the words _top _or _bottom _when we're about to see my parents. That is not an association I ever want to have in my head."

I duck my head in embarrassment. "Sorry. In my defense, you did ask."

"I did. You're right. That was my mistake," he says drily, rubbing the moisturizer into his forehead. "As I recall, I did say we'd talk about it later."

I look up quickly, my eyes widening. "You did. Yes." He keeps moisturizing, and I find myself holding my breath as I wait. I'm not even sure which one I'm hoping he'll say. In all honesty, neither position seems terribly appealing. But it's important to know what I'm in for, whenever we do reach that point.

"You were neither," he says finally.

"What?"

"You weren't a top or a bottom."

I gape at him in confusion. "So... I was both? We took turns?"

"Blaine..." He sets the moisturizer bottle aside and turns to look at me fully. "Gay sex doesn't have to mean anal sex. Most teenaged guys don't do it that way. A lot of _adult _guys don't do it that way. We talked about it, and we both agreed that we weren't really interested in that."

"So then... where do you put..."

"There are lots of other options. Handjobs and blowjobs are quick and easy."

I'm blushing so hard my face actually hurts. "Ah."

"But most of the time, when we said sex, we meant rutting."

"Rutting."

He holds up his hands, making two Vs with his fingers and rubbing them together. "You slot your legs like this, and line up next to each other until the angle's just right, and you're grinding alongside each other."

"Isn't that uncomfortable? Like... isn't there a lot of friction?"

"You use lube." He smiles devilishly. "A lot of lube."

I'm not half-hard anymore. Now I've got an aching full-grown boner, and Kurt is grinning at it openly. "I'm just gonna—"

"Uh huh. You do that." He turns back to his mirror as I flee down the hallway, calling after me, "Lotion's under the sink."

* * *

><p>Once I've taken care of my pressing matter, I pull down his covers and climb into his bed. His sheets are so silky soft. I rub my cheek against a pillow, sighing in contentment. "I like it here."<p>

"Where? My house?"

"Your bed. It smells like you."

Kurt finishes tidying up his vanity and gets up, untying his robe. "Are you saying I smell?"

"Mm, yes. I love how you smell." I watch as he drapes the robe over his vanity stool, before coming over and sliding into bed beside me.

He leans over me, running a thumb over my cheek. "I love you," he whispers, before kissing me lightly. I kiss him back slowly, carefully. Our tongues slide together, and my whole body starts to tingle. It feels as though the bed is adrift at sea, our own little floating island, unreachable by Sebastian or Karofsky or anyone else who might wish us harm.

When we finally separate, I feel boneless and liquid. Kurt turns and eases my arms around him, sighing in contentment.

"I love you back," I whisper. "And I'm sorry about tonight."

"For what?" he murmurs. "You couldn't have helped that some guy I sort of dated for a few days half a year ago would threaten you."

"No, but I shouldn't have gotten so upset afterwards."

"You're allowed to get upset, Blaine. We both are."

"Okay."

He tangles our legs together. His feet are freezing cold as he flexes his toes against my ankles. "Just as long as you come back to me afterwards."

"I think if this past year has shown us anything, it's that I'll always come back to you." As I start to drift off to sleep, I think about love, and courage, and braving the most fearsome trains and strangers. I have to hand it to Old Blaine. He summed it up nicely.


	22. Chapter 22

_**A/N:** This is sadly unbetaed, but I wanted to post it before leaving on our family vacation (and the tumblr peeps voted in favor of my posting it, even though it's shorter than the average RiD chapter). Sorry for any and all mistakes! _

_The story is going to be snowballing more and more toward the climax. This chapter really starts it rolling.__  
><em>

* * *

><p>I awake to the sound of whispers coming from the hall.<p>

"But you said I could have a few days."

"I'm sorry, Kurt. George is down visiting his parents in Boca this week, and I just got a call from Jack, saying his kids got the flu. We're swamped with customers and I'm short-staffed."

"Can't you ask Finn?"

"He'll be there. So far it's me, him and Hank, and there's no way the three of us can handle it all. Even if you could come in for half a shift, just to get the oil changes and tire rotations out of the way..."

"He needs me right now, Dad."

"I know, bud, but I need you too. I wouldn't ask if I had any other option."

I sit up, rubbing my eyes blearily. Kurt and his dad are standing in the doorway, looking back at me. "Morning," I croak out.

"Morning," Kurt replies, coming over to kiss me. "Nice bedhead."

I scowl, trying to flatten it with my palm, and Burt chuckles. "You have to go?"

"Just for a bit. Will you be okay?"

"Yeah... Time's it?

"It's not even seven o'clock yet. Go back to sleep. I'll try to finish up by noon."

"Kay." I flop back onto the bed, falling asleep in moments.

* * *

><p>When I wake again, it's just past eight. I make Kurt's bed and take a quick shower before dressing and heading into the kitchen. To my surprise, Carole is in here, drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. "Good morning," she says. "Did you sleep well?"<p>

"Yes, thank you. I thought everyone had left for work already."

"My shift doesn't start until nine. You want some cereal?" She pushes a box of Froot Loops toward me, then gets up to pull a bowl and spoon out of the cabinet for me. "Kurt always wants high-fiber cereal, but I remember you like the sugary stuff." She stops, one hand reaching for the milk. "Unless your tastes changed, like with the minestrone?"

"Nope, I still like it." I take the chair across from her, thanking her and pouring myself a bowl of cereal.

Carole sits back down, wrapping both hands around her coffee cup. The house feels chilly this morning. "What do you have planned for today?"

"Not sure. I'll probably just hang out here, if that's okay."

"It's always okay for you to stay here. I just thought you might want to see some of your friends."

I chew my mouthful of cereal thoroughly, feeling embarrassed. Finally I swallow and admit, "I don't have any friends."

She stares at me incredulously. "What?"

"My parents didn't let anyone contact me after I woke up from the coma. So I haven't talked to any of my old friends in over a year."

I can tell by the way Carole sets her jaw that she has a lot to say about that. Instead, she just says, "You should get in touch with them. Bet they'd love to hear from you."

"I'd like to... it's just complicated."

"Because of your parents?"

"No, because of Kurt." She cocks her head questioningly, and I add, "There's this guy in the Warblers..."

"Ah. Right, I forgot."

"I'm worried that he'll keep pursuing me if I go visit my friends at Dalton, and Kurt—"

"Will have to deal with it," she interrupts. "If you want to visit the Warblers, visit the Warblers. I know this Sebastian kid makes Kurt feel threatened, but he needs to get over it. There'll always be someone who takes too much of an interest in one of you. He has to trust that you'll be faithful to him. And _you_ have to be able to choose your own friends." She glances over at the clock on the microwave, then gets to her feet. "If I don't get going, I'll be late. You're all right here?"

"I'm fine. Thanks, Carole."

She ruffles my hair as she leaves. I smile in response, even though it'll take a good five minutes in the bathroom with my hair gel to fix it.

* * *

><p>I do consider going to Dalton, but instead — once I trudge through some freshly-fallen snow to my car — I decide to drive to the Lima Bean instead. I expect that a hot cup of freshly brewed coffee will help clear my head.<p>

What I _don't_ expect is to see Sebastian sitting at a table right by the front door.

"Well, well, well," he drawls slowly. "Looks like Santa brought my Christmas present a little early this year."

I give him a curt nod, then go over to stand in line for coffee. I can feel him watching me as I get my order and add cream, sweetener, and a few shakes of cinnamon to my coffee. When I turn around and catch him looking, he gives me a wide smile and shrugs, calling out, "Just enjoying the view!"

"Shouldn't you be in school?" I ask stiffly, walking over to his table.

"ICHSA semifinals are coming up. Warblers are excused from morning classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays so that we can prepare."

I look down at the table. He's got an issue of _GQ _magazine and a cup of coffee in front of him. "This is preparing?"

His smile falters for a moment. "I'm, ah... actually on hiatus from the Warblers for a bit."

"Then shouldn't you be in class?"

"What are you, my mother?" he snaps.

I lift my hands in surrender. "Fine. Forget I said anything. Have a nice day, Sebastian," I say as I turn to leave.

"No, wait..."

"I don't have time for—"

"I got suspended from Dalton."

I turn around slowly. "You what?"

"Got suspended," he says more quietly, glancing around.

"For what?"

"I, uh... got caught with liquor in my dorm room. It was the second time this semester, so I got a week-long suspension."

Sighing, I sit down across from him. "Are your parents upset?"

"They don't know yet. They're in Rome until after the new year." He's spinning his cup around in a slow circle. "The headmaster's overreacting. It's not like I have a drinking problem. I only drink every once in a while, to relax."

"Like last night?"

He stops, looking at me curiously. "How'd you know I was drinking last night?"

"You sent me some interesting texts."

"Oh." He pulls out his phone, scrolling through his messages until he finds them. "_Oh_. Sorry about that."

"Yeah."

"Usually I just hook up with Morgan if I'm feeling horny, but he was away at some taekwondo competition yesterday. Jeff and I messed around at a party once, but lately he doesn't answer when I text him." He laughs shortly. "None of the Warblers do, anymore."

"I thought you said you were their leader."

"I was. For a while." He sips his coffee, not meeting my gaze. "I guess they got tired of me eventually. They'd probably have kicked me out of the group already, except I'm their strongest singer."

"And humblest."

"Well, that goes without saying." The smile is back, his teeth blindingly white. I never noticed before, how sad he looks when he smiles. "So what brings you to the Lima Bean, Blaine? Shouldn't you be off somewhere with your frigid, girly boyfriend—"

"Why do you like me?" I interrupt.

His eyes flicker strangely in the light. "What?"

"I don't drink. I'm not promiscuous. We don't have the same friends. Or the same interests, other than singing. And I said no when you asked me out last year. So what's the appeal? Why do you keep hitting on me?" He stares at me, speechless, so I push on. "Is it the thrill of the chase? A conquest thing? Am I just the only guy who's ever turned you down?"

"You..." he shakes his head. "It's hard to explain."

"Try."

"You don't take me at face value." He smiles and dips his head when I look confused. "I know I can be obnoxious. Bit of an egotist. Everyone else puts me in that box without a second thought, but you've always understood that there's more to me. Even last year, when Kurt threw a hissy fit that we were talking, you didn't cut me off. We used to chat online all the time. About movies, and music, and how much we hated our parents' social circles."

What he's saying doesn't jive with what's in my journal, and yet it sounds believable — I've always been the type to try to befriend everyone, to see the hidden good in someone even when others can't. But why wouldn't I have written about it in my journal? Was I worried that Kurt would read my entries and get upset? "So I was a friend to you," I surmise.

"I guess. Yeah."

"Then why keep hitting on me?"

His cheeks are turning pink. "Like I said, you always seemed to get me. And I think you're hot. And I know you think _I'm _hot." He glances up at me, as if daring me to deny it, but I don't. "So would I like to date you? Sure."

"But you knew from last year that I didn't like it when you propositioned me..."

"Yeah. That's why I tried doing it right this time."

I squint at him, lost. "Right?"

"You know. Wooing you. Taking you out to karaoke night, so we could bond over music again. And to a movie, so we could talk about the plot afterwards."

"You offered to blow me in the back of the theater," I remind him, my own cheeks flushing.

"Did I?" He laughs. "Well. Old habits die hard, I think. And I'd like to."

"You'd like to what?"

"Blow you." He leans in, as my breath hitches. "I love it. I love everything about it. The smell, the taste, the sense of control... my favorite part is that one split second when a guy freezes, right before he comes hard down your throat—"

"This," I squeak. "This is a perfect example of why we're wrong for each other. Kurt knows I'm nervous about sex, so he says he'll wait as long as I need to. Meanwhile you can't seem to talk about anything else."

"I can too."

"All right, prove it."

He looks around, considering. "I like to play Scrabble online."

This literally might be the last thing I expected him to say. "Really."

"Yeah. You can play it through Facebook — it's called Words with Friends there. Or there's other websites, too. I'm kind of awesome at it."

"Isn't it sort of a game of chance, though? Doesn't it depend on which letter tiles you get?"

"God, no. It's all about strategy. That, and having a good Scrabble vocabulary. Like, you think any word starting with a Q has to have a U come next, right?" At my nod, he continues. "Well, there are exceptions. Like QI and QAT. I always try to put my Q on a triple-letter spot, because it really racks up your points."

"That's... interesting."

"No, it's not. It's boring, and _I'm_ boring for bringing it up. Want me to tell you more about my blowjob techniques?"

"No."

"You sure? I do this thing where I sort of curl my tongue around your—"

"_No_." We're both laughing now.

"Well, let me know if you change your mind and need tips." His smile fades. "Even if you won't ever be using them on me."

"Sebastian—"

"I mean it. You had a really shitty thing happen to you last year, and you deserve some happiness. And maybe... I don't know. Maybe there's a chance for us to be friends this time around."

"I... think I'd like that," I tell him, and to my surprise, I realize I mean it. I could really use some friends.

"Me too. And at some point down the road, if you and Kurt break up—"

"Never gonna happen."

We sit in a comfortable silence, sipping our coffees. Part of me wants to ask him about those creepy things I read in my journal. I want to know why he used to call me up in the dead of night and threaten me. Was he drunk? When his inhibitions are down, will he sing a different tune?

Eventually I notice the clock. It would be pointless to drive to Dalton for a visit now; Warblers practice would be over by the time I got there. Besides, it's after eleven. Kurt should be done with work soon. "I've got to head out," I tell Sebastian.

He nods, then cocks his head. "Any chance I could get a hug?"

"A hug?"

"Friends hug each other, right?"

I shrug, confused, but stand up anyway, accepting his hug. He wraps his arms around my shoulders and squeezes me tight.

"I'll text you later," he says, before pulling back.

"Okay."

"I didn't grab your ass, did you notice?"

"I did notice."

"Progress, huh?"

"I'd say so."

I throw my cup in the trash and head out to my car, feeling lighter somehow. I'm able to make it back to the Hummels' house by 11:30, and Kurt walks in the door at 12:15. He's full of apologies and rains kisses all over my face to try to make it up to me. I think for a moment that I should tell him about my talk with Sebastian, but then he starts sucking on the underside of my jaw, and I don't think of much of anything after that.

* * *

><p>I try telling him late in the afternoon, after we finish an extended makeout session on the living room couch. His lips are red and swollen from our kisses, his gaze heavy-lidded and warm. He's so relaxed, it seems like a good time to bring it up.<p>

"Kurt, I've been thinking... It would be good for me to make some friends."

His face brightens. "Oh, honey, absolutely."

"Really? You wouldn't mind?"

"For god's sake, Blaine, it's not like I'm planning on keeping you tied up in my room, or..." His eyes grow hazy, suddenly, and I know he must be thinking something dirty. I clear my throat pointedly.

"Focus, please."

"Thanks. Yes. Anyway, I think it's a great idea. And actually, there'll be some friend prospects coming over here tonight, if you don't mind us sticking around here for a bit."

"I don't mind. What sort of friend prospects?"

"A bunch of guys are home for winter break, so Finn invited them over for some big video game competition." He squints, thinking. "I forget what the game is called. Has to do with shooting... things..."

"Ah, right. That one."

"Anyway, Puck will be there — you met him already. Sam Evans and Artie Abrams, they're both seniors this year. I should ask Finn if Mike's coming."

"Who's Mike?"

"Mike Chang. He was probably your closest friend at McKinley."

I have a sudden vision of a tall Asian guy doing some hip-hop moves. "Was... was he a dancer?"

Kurt's eyes light up. "He was. Give me a second, I'll call Finn at the tire shop right now."

He pulls out his phone, and I take the opportunity to check my own unread text messages. There's a new one from Sebastian: _Just saw a hot guy at the mall. What pickup line do you think would be most effective?_

I think for a moment, then type back: _Hi, my name's Sebastian. What's yours? _I press send before re-folding the throw blanket and straightening up the couch. A couple of hours of frantic kissing can really do a number on the cushions. Kurt is still on the phone — it sounds as though he's talking to his dad now about ordering several pizzas for dinner. I hear him mention that Mike Chang will indeed be coming tonight, and I feel a surge of excitement. Maybe Mike and I will still have a connection, and he'll want to be my friend again.

My cell phone vibrates with a new message: _Ah. So you wouldn't recommend "Are you a top or a bottom? Because I'm a switch hitter and I just want to score with you."_

I stifle a laugh, replying: _Yeah, I would not recommend that._

_Probably why he ran away, then?_

_Probably. Try mine instead next time, see how it works for you._

The guys are planning to meet here at six o'clock for pizza and gaming, so Kurt and I enjoy a few more hours just to ourselves. He takes the couch while I sit on the floor between his legs, getting a nice shoulder massage as we watch a few episodes of _What Not to Wear_. Then we bake four batches of truly spectacular oatmeal chocolate chip cookies before setting out plastic cups, plates, and napkins for tonight's dinner.

"What kind of pizza do you want?" he asks.

"Anything. You know me; I'm easy."

His eyes twinkle, and I have to laugh. He calls the pizza place, ordering five pizzas with different toppings and a few bottles of Coke and Sprite.

I lean against the counter and watch him, feeling warm and contented. Not even one month ago, I was still driving around every morning, on a quest to find the perfect coffee shop. Now I've somehow landed the world's sweetest, funniest, most handsome boyfriend. His family loves and supports me. There's even a handful of prospective friends coming over soon. I can't believe my life has changed so profoundly in a matter of weeks.

Just as Kurt is hanging up, I feel my cell phone vibrate in my pocket. Pulling it out, I read a new text message:

_Hi, my name's Sebastian. What's yours?_


	23. Chapter 23

**_A/N:_**_ So much love to **flippergirl17** and **klainebravid** for their beta help! Sorry for the delay, the beginning of school kicked my ass._

* * *

><p>I'm so <em>nervous.<em>

It reminds me of my first day at Dalton, when my tie felt too tight and my hair wouldn't lie flat and I just needed everything to be _perfect_, so that people would like me. I remember my first time walking through the halls at school. Seeing all the students and teachers smiling at me. The disconnect of meeting boys who wanted to shake my hand and not push me to the ground. That whole day was spent on a constant cycle of fear, hope, and wonder.

Now, at Kurt's house, I'm straightening the utensils, arranging the cups artfully, plumping the pillows on his couch. Kurt and Finn keep looking at me funny, but then, they don't get what's at stake.

Kurt says that Mike Chang was my closest friend at McKinley. I think of a line from an old Muppets song — _There's not a word yet for old friends who've just met_ — and hope for the thousandth time that Mike and I will still get along. As much as I love Kurt, I need a friend right now. Not one like Sebastian, who is wearing my patience thin, nor Finn, who can't really be my confidante since he's Kurt's brother.

No, I need someone of my own. And if Mike liked Old Blaine, well, maybe he'll like me too.

At quarter to six, I dart into the bathroom again to make sure my hair is covering most of the scar on my head. When I open the door, Kurt's standing there.

"You're worrying too much," he tells me. "Mike's a really laid-back guy. He won't care how the place looks. And he certainly won't care how your hair looks."

"I need a friend," I say miserably. "I didn't even realize how much until I met you. I've only had my parents for company this past year, and I just... I..."

"Need a friend," he nods. "I really do understand. Just don't make yourself crazy over it, okay? You're kind of ridiculously likable."

The doorbell rings, and I can feel my heart rate quicken. "Is that...?"

"Let's go see."

It turns out to be Sam and Artie at the door. They wave to me with awkward expressions, then keep staring at my head.

I should've worn a hat. Why didn't I think to wear a hat?

Thankfully, Puck arrives next. He claps my shoulder soundly and tells Sam, Artie and Finn the story of how we broke into my house with Quinn. In minutes, the strange tension has mostly dissipated. We're all sitting in the living room, listening to Sam do a pretty good James Bond impression, when a tall Asian guy enters the room.

I stand up and try to think of what to say, but I don't actually get the chance — in two strides, Mike crosses the room and grabs me in a bear hug.

"Wow, it's so good to see you," he says, pulling back after a moment. "I've _missed_ you, man."

I beam at him, and he beams at me, and Kurt dabs at his eyes with a handkerchief.

* * *

><p>Puck's new video game is called Ultimate Street Justice VI. It basically involves two players trying to get from one side of the city to the other, and protecting themselves from attacks from street gangs along the way. Kurt gets bored pretty quickly, and wanders off to work on his college application essay. I'm sitting on the floor with Mike, watching Artie and Puck try to get to some rendezvous point.<p>

"Watch the bridge," Finn says from where he's perched on the sofa arm. "I bet there's snipers up there. And look out for that barrel, too. Barrels are always suspicious. Anyone want more pizza?" He heads into the kitchen, and after a moment, Sam follows, murmuring something about _everything but the little fishies._

Artie leans forward in his wheelchair, shaking his head. "This level's hard, yo." He's still glancing away from the game to stare at me every once in a while, so I turn slightly away from him, blocking my scar from view.

Puck discovers a back alley full of shady-looking characters, and hides behind a dumpster as they open fire with machine guns. "Dude, where are you? I need backup!"

"I'm... hold on." Artie tries to follow, but a tall and muscular henchman jumps in front of him, holding a large crowbar. "Shoot, I... " The henchman swings the crowbar, knocking Artie to the ground.

And suddenly, I can't move.

There's a strange ringing in my ears. I can't tear my eyes away from the screen. Again and again and again, the crowbar comes down, hitting flesh with a sickening sound, and he isn't moving now. He isn't moving, and there's so much blood, and still the crowbar swings down, aiming for Kurt this time as he dives in front of me—

"Pause the game for a second," Mike says loudly. Puck and Artie do so, looking at him curiously. "I'm totally in the mood for bubble tea. Anyone else?"

"Yeah, sure," Puck nods. "Bubble tea's so good. I love when those squishy balls shoot up into my mouth." He notices Artie's wide eyes and adds, "No homo."

"Great, I'll get some for everybody. Blaine can help me carry it all." Mike is hauling me to my feet, which is helpful because I'm still so shaken. "We'll be back later."

We head toward the front door, Mike grabbing our coats off the wall hooks. Kurt pokes his head out of his bedroom doorway. "Are you guys going to... Blaine? What's wrong?"

I shake my head numbly.

"I've got him, Kurt," Mike says, helping me into my coat.

Kurt nods, looking unconvinced as Mike and I step out of the house. The cold air hits me hard once we're outside. I lean over and fill my lungs with it, letting it slowly chase away the terror from moments ago.

"I'm sorry," Mike is saying. "The game just came out, and I didn't know that part was in there. I never would've let them bring it if I'd known." He rests his hand on my upper back as I breathe in and out unsteadily. "Do you want me to drive you home? Or I can kick the guys out. Whatever you want."

I straighten up and look at him. His expression is etched with concern, and he waits patiently for me to answer.

"Blaine? What do you want?" he asks gently.

"I want to go out for bubble tea with my friend," I tell him.

He grins. "Well okay, then."

* * *

><p>"So let me get this straight." Mike takes a big sip of mango bubble tea — his third of the night — before continuing. "Every single morning, you drove around to random coffee houses within a couple hours' radius of Westerville, until you found the Lima Bean. And when you went inside, Kurt just happened to be there that morning."<p>

I nod, finishing off my second lychee tea and reaching for a taro one. Mike bought half a dozen of them, and we've been sitting at a table near the back of Boba Fete, a small tea place halfway between Lima and Bluffton. I know I'm going to have to pee any minute now, but it's worth it to sit here with Mike and catch up with each other. "I was just lucky, I guess."

"Forget luck, that's fate. And now you're staying at Rob's apartment together?"

"Ever since I left my parents' house, yeah."

"Wow. So what's next?"

"I have no idea," I admit. "My college applications are all in, and I'm about finished making up all the schoolwork I missed when I was in the coma. So for now I've just been focusing on my relationship with Kurt."

Mike cocks his head, looking curious. "Is it weird?"

"Which part?"

"Dating someone who already knows all about you."

I shrug. "To be fair, he doesn't really know all about _me_. He knows all about Old Blaine."

"Old Blaine?"

"The guy whose memories I lost."

He shakes his head. "I don't understand."

"I don't feel like that guy Kurt dated last year. Like... when I heard that he transferred schools to be with Kurt? I couldn't believe it. After all I did to get into Dalton, he just threw it all away."

"You did it to spend more time with the boy you loved," he says cautiously.

"No, I get that. But he could've seen Kurt in the evenings, or on the weekends. They could've talked on the phone and Skyped. I just don't get why he would purposely put himself back in the same situation that I worked so hard to escape."

"It was important to you to face your fears."

"But he—"

"You," he interjects softly.

"What?"

"You keep saying _he_. It was _you_."

"Technically, yes."

"Not technically. Whether or not you remember, it was still you."

I take a big sip of tea, trying to keep my anger at bay.

"Don't get mad, Blaine, I'm just trying to help."

"I'm not mad."

"Of course you are. You think I can't recognize when you're mad?" He leans forward. "I can, because I know you."

"You know Old Blaine."

"I—" He lets out a huff of frustration. "It's like... have you ever heard the story of the three blind men who are out for a walk and come upon an elephant?" I shake my head. "Well, the first blind man reaches out and touches the elephant's trunk, and says, _This is a snake. _The second blind man reaches out and feels the elephant's leg, and says, _No, this is a tree trunk. _The third blind man reaches out and feels the elephant's tail, and says, _No, this is a rope._"

"I'm not following."

"You're assuming that someone can only know you if they've gotten to know you since the attack. But you're more than just a year's collection of experiences. You're the guy you were before Dalton, you're the guy you were when you dated Kurt, _and_ you're the guy that you are today. Take one piece without the whole, and it's an incomplete picture."

"So you're saying I'm incomplete without the memories that I lost?" I demand, stung.

"I'm saying whether or not you remember that lost time, it's still a part of you."

"But it's _not_."

"Of course it is. You said you have flashes of memories, right?" he asks, and I nod begrudgingly. "And the box full of mementos. Your old journal. Kurt. _Me_, even. We're all from Old Blaine's life."

"I can't ever be him," I burst out, startling even myself. "People expect me to be, and I can't live up to him."

"What do you mean?"

"He had it so easy. He didn't have to deal with everything that I've been through." I break off, frustrated, but Mike nods for me to continue. "I'm afraid that Kurt, and you, and everybody else... that everyone will expect me to magically become him again, if my memories come back. But I can't. Because he never had to face knowing that someone hated who he was enough to try to kill him. It changes who you are, Mike."

"Nobody would ever expect you to regress," he says. "Of course you've changed. Kurt's changed, too. Hell, _I've _changed. I'm just saying you can't treat your lost memories as though they belonged to someone else, someone you're in competition with. It's all just parts of you. And I think if you just accepted that, you'd realize you have a lot more in common with that lost piece of yourself than you thought."

I drink some more bubble tea, thinking, but he doesn't push me. He just finishes off his own tea. "I can see why we were friends," I tell him finally.

"_Best_ friends," he corrects me.

"Best friends," I agree. I smile a little at that, and he smiles back.

"I think you're the only person I've always been completely honest with. We always told each other everything."

"Everything?" I ask. "So you knew about Sebastian?"

His smile fades. "You remember Sebastian?"

"No. I met him again, when I went to visit Dalton. Kurt had asked if I would go on three dates with someone else, so that I could figure out on my own whether he was the right guy for me. So I went out with Sebastian."

"And how did that go?"

"How do you think it went?"

"I think he probably spent all three dates trying to get in your pants. Accurate?"

"Accurate. Although we're trying to be friends now."

"It won't work," he says immediately.

"How do you know?"

"Because you two will always want different things. You tried being his friend the last time around, too."

"That's what he told me," I say, intrigued. "But my journal doesn't say anything about that. Was I afraid that Kurt would read it?"

"No, he'd never betray your trust like that."

"My parents, then? I mean, who was I hiding it from?"

"Yourself, probably." He shrugs. "You've always had this sort of... _gentleman_ complex. Wherever we are, you have to be the nicest person in the room. The most polite, the most accommodating. And you always, _always_ have to do what you think is right. I think if you didn't write about becoming Sebastian's friend, it's because you knew it was the wrong thing to do, and you didn't want to face that truth. Plus if you were being completely honest, you'd have to admit that you were attracted to him."

My jaw falls open. "I told you that?"

"You didn't have to. It was obvious."

"I feel so guilty about it," I admit. "I love Kurt. I really do. So why do I still feel attracted to Sebastian?"

"Just because you're in love with someone mean you can't be attracted to someone else. I'm attracted to a bunch of the dancers in my ballet class. All those moves we do together? It's like torture_. _But I love my girlfriend, and I know I'd never cheat on her. Finding someone else attractive isn't cheating."

"I guess..." I concede.

"But here's the thing, Blaine. Some of those dancers are attracted to me, too. They ask me out for coffee, and I always say no. Because otherwise, we're just playing with fire, and it's only a matter of time until someone gets burned."

It feels as though a weight is being lifted off my chest. Not only is Mike absolving me of my guilt about being attracted to Sebastian, but he's also telling me that I wouldn't be breaking my own gentleman code by cutting off contact with him. I think back to Sebastian's last text message this afternoon, and realize that Mike is right — he and I just can't be friends.

"Would you excuse me for a moment?" I ask.

"Yeah, sure."

"I'll be right back."

I grab my coat and cell phone before heading outside, buttoning up against the cold wind. There's a little bench right outside the door, and I sit down, scrolling through my six new text messages.

_Sebastian Smythe: Hey Blaine, you make me feel like an M&M. _

_Sebastian Smythe: Because you make me want to melt in your mouth, not in your hand._

_Kurt Hummel: You ok? Let me know if you need me. I love you._

_Sebastian Smythe: Any chance you don't consider phone sex cheating? _

_Sebastian Smythe: Because I'm hard as a rock and I've got a palmful of lube with your name on it._

_Sebastian Smythe: Or Skype? How about Skype? _

I press send, and hold my breath as the call connects. There's a brief pause, before his voice comes over the line.

"God, I didn't think that would actually work. Are you naked too? What do you think about Skype? My username's—"

"We can't be friends, Sebastian," I interrupt.

"...what?"

"You told me you'd back off. You said you'd respect my relationship with Kurt. It hasn't even been half a day, and you're already making passes at me again."

"I was just teasing you."

"You were not."

I can hear a slow slapping sound in the background, and my stomach turns. "Can I help it if you parade around in your tight little—"

"We're done. Don't call me, don't text me, don't come and see me. Do you understand?"

There's a long pause, before he murmurs softly, "I understand."

I end the call and lean forward, letting out a long breath. I've always had an overwhelming need to please people, and this sort of thing doesn't come easy to me. At the same time, it's such a _relief_ not to have to worry about what Sebastian will say or do next.

Mike comes outside after a few minutes, with four new bubble teas in his arms. "Everything all right?"

I look up and give him a real smile. "Everything's good. But I can't possibly drink any more tea, or my bladder might explode."

"These are for the guys," he says. "Ready to hit the road?"

"Absolutely."

We turn up the radio on the way home and sing along at the top of our lungs, dancing in our seats during red lights.

* * *

><p>By the time we get back to the Hummels' house, Artie and Sam have already left. Puck and Finn are embroiled in a Call of Duty battle, though they pause it long enough for Puck to suck down a bubble tea.<p>

Kurt joins Mike and me at the kitchen table after I use the bathroom, and the two of them start trying to one-up each other, telling embarrassing stories about Old Blaine — I mean, about _me_. We're all howling with laughter, and before long, Puck and Finn come in, looking curious. Kurt goes into the hall closet and pulls out an old poker set, and we squeeze two more chairs around the little table so that everyone can fit.

Finn is awful at bluffing, and Puck goes all in every hand until he's out. Kurt is shockingly good, and keeps building elaborate towers out of his stacks of chips. Mike starts trying to cheat by asking me what cards I have in Tagalog, prompting Finn to yell, _For the thousandth time, no secret languages allowed!_

Everything feels so easy. We laugh and tease each other, and when Kurt leans over to kiss my cheek, no one bats an eye. Well, okay, Puck looks a little dreamy-eyed, but no one else seems to even notice.

The party breaks up just before midnight. Mike gives me another bone-crushing hug, and we trade cell phone numbers before he leaves.

"Well?" Kurt asks hopefully, once everyone has left. "I thought that went pretty w—"

I crowd him up against the counter, kissing him breathless. "I know it's late, but can we go home? I want to thank you properly for tonight."

He kisses me harder, trapping my lower lip between his teeth, and I moan.

"I'll get the keys."

* * *

><p>Kurt and I make out in bed until we're both too exhausted to do anything but fall asleep. When my cell phone rings just past three, Kurt doesn't even stir.<p>

Half-asleep, I stumble over to the dresser and pick up my phone, groaning softly when I see that it's Sebastian. Thankfully, when I glance over at Kurt, he's still fast asleep. I tiptoe out of the bedroom before answering the phone. "Sebastian, this is ridiculous, Kurt is—"

"Listen to me very carefully," he whispers. "You don't _see_ him. You don't _call_ him. You don't so much as _think _about him. You stay away from him, or else."

I can feel my blood run cold at the barely-restrained fury in his words. "Or else what?"

"Or else _this_ time I will fucking _kill_ you."


	24. Chapter 24

**_A/N:_**_ Many thanks to **guiltyphandiot **and** klainebravid** for their beta services! _

_Special thanks to those of you who were kind after the last chapter. Certain people in this fandom need some sort of anger management training, I think._

_I'm really torn about Chapter 25, because something is meant to happen that I think will also happen in The Breakup. I don't want to seem like I'm copying the show, because I'd honestly planned for it for months. So it may happen, may not. I dunno. _

_Also, reliable sources report that if Blaine and Kurt break up on Thursday, the fiery wrath of my hell-fury shall consume all of the world._

* * *

><p>Kurt wakes up just after nine o'clock. I'm sitting on the couch, my arms wrapped tightly around myself as they've been for the past six hours, listening to the faint sounds he makes. The little groan he lets out as he stretches. The soft padding of his footsteps on the bedroom carpet. The water running in the bathroom as he brushes his teeth. Eventually he wanders into the living room, smiling sleepily at me, his hair sticking up in the back.<p>

"Good morning," he says.

"It was Sebastian."

He pauses, his smile fading. "What?"

"Sebastian was the one who attacked us."

"Oh, baby. You're shaking." He comes over to the couch, settling down next to me and pulling my arms open so that he can curl up next to me. "You need to wake me up if you have nightmares."

"It wasn't a nightmare. He called me last night." Kurt feels so good, all warm and soft and sweet against me, but I can't let myself get distracted. "He threatened me. Said I had to cut off all contact with you."

Kurt sighs, long and slow. "I'm sorry he frightened you." He wraps his arms around me securely. "And I'm sorry I didn't wake up when it happened. He did this sort of thing before, too. He'd drink too much and call you in the middle of the night. Said horrible things to you then, too."

"Because it was _him_," I insist. "He attacked us last year. He's the one. And it's my fault he's back in our lives now. It's all my fault."

"Close your eyes," he urges. "Just breathe, okay? Of course you're upset. That call would shake anyone up."

"How are you not getting this? It's not about the call!"

He pulls back a little, resting his chin on my chest and looking up at me. "Honey, I told you. Sebastian didn't attack us. Are you saying he arranged the attack? Got someone else to do it?"

"No, I'm saying it was _him_. I could tell. He said he'd kill me this time if I didn't stay away from you."

"I can understand why that was so upsetting," he says. "But he really didn't do it. He was out of town that whole night."

"Then he's lying. He faked an alibi."

"He didn't, though. The Warblers were performing at a benefit concert in Columbus that evening. There are videos up on YouTube of him singing lead there. The press covered the concert, and he's in all the pictures." He strokes my back gently. "Believe me, I'm no fan of Sebastian Smythe. I'd be very happy if I never see his creepy rodent face again. But even he wouldn't stoop so low. There's no way he attacked us."

My mind is racing. "But the way he sounded. It was... I'm telling you, it sounded like he was the one who did it." Even as I say it, I know how paranoid I sound. If Sebastian was out of town, and that many people can corroborate it, then obviously I'm wrong.

"Why don't I go talk to him?" Kurt suggests.

"No, don't!"

"Blaine—"

"I know, I know. It wasn't him. But just... please. Don't."

"Okay," he says. "We could go to the police and try to get a restraining order. But we'd need to prove that he's threatening you, which would mean recording future calls that he makes."

"I don't want to hear his voice again. Not even to trap him."

"Then we need to figure out a way to block his number from your phone."

"I read in my journal that I tried to block him the last time around. But my dad had to approve it because the phone is licensed under his name, and he wouldn't do it."

"So let's talk to your dad, and—"

"I'm not ready for that."

"Then I'll call Sebastian," he says decisively. "I'll get him to take your number out of his phone, so he can't drunk dial you anymore."

The idea of Kurt talking to him makes me uneasy, probably because I'm still so shaken from the fury in Sebastian's voice last night. He's right, though. That solution seems to make the most sense. "Okay, but not... not yet." I squeeze him tighter against me. "Can we just lie here together for a while first?"

"I never say no to cuddles," he says, snuggling his head under my chin. "But you have to _promise_ me that you'll wake me up if anything like this ever happens again. It kills me that you were out here alone and scared for all those hours."

"I promise."

He hums softly, relaxing fully against me. My eyelids grow too heavy to stay open, as the fatigue from last night overtakes me. The last thing I remember hearing as I drift off to sleep is Kurt whispering that he loves me.

* * *

><p>I wake to the sound of the apartment door opening, which startles me until I realize that Kurt is coming inside, laden down with grocery bags. I spring up to help him. "You went shopping?"<p>

"Man cannot live on Pop-Tarts alone," he says. He uses his shoulder to nudge the slide-lock shut before handing me a couple of the bags.

I follow him into the kitchen, yawning. "Sorry I slept so long."

"Don't be silly. You needed it."

"What'd you do while I was asleep?"

"Oh, you know. Ran some errands. Knitted a sweater. Wrote a symphony."

I roll my eyes. "I wasn't out _that _long."

"I, uh..." He pulls two boxes of cereal out of a bag, biting his lip. "I also called Sebastian."

"You _what_?"

"I wanted to call on the early side, to be sure to catch him sober," he says. "It wasn't a bad talk. Really."

I watch him start to put the groceries away in Rob's little pantry. "So... what'd he say?"

"He apologized. Said he doesn't even remember making the calls."

"And you believe him?"

Kurt stops, considering. "Yeah, I think I do. He tends to be pretty transparent, and when I told him about the threats he'd made, he seemed too upset and ashamed to be faking. He said he'd delete your number from his contact list right away. And he asked me to apologize to you. For everything."

I let out a long breath. "So that's the end of Sebastian."

"Well... not exactly." He pulls a jug of water out of one of the bags. "He has to stop by sometime."

"Stop by _here_? Why?"

"He's got to return your promise ring."

"What?" My fingers fly to my neck at once, feeling for the chain, but it's gone. "How..."

"He said he found it on the ground after you left the Lima Bean yesterday. Thinks it might have caught on his coat when you two _hugged_." He raises one eyebrow at me, and I swallow thickly.

"I went to get some coffee when you were at work yesterday morning. He just happened to be sitting there. We talked for a few minutes and agreed to be friends. It was totally innocent, I swear."

"I believe you. It just would've been nice to hear it from you, rather than him."

"I'm sorry."

He rubs my shoulder briefly before picking up a carton of eggs. "So..."

"So..."

"Are you hungry?"

I nod. It's after two, and I haven't eaten anything today. "Are you going to cook something?"

"Actually, I was thinking it might be fun to go out. There's a great Thai restaurant that we used to love. Their noodles are to die for." He frowns a little, running his hands over his hips. "Although... I should probably start cutting back on carbs. My jeans have felt a little tighter than usual the past two days—"

I cut him off with a kiss, and feel the curve of his lips as he smiles against mine. "You're perfect," I murmur before kissing him again and again.

"Will you still say that when I weigh five hundred pounds and I'm eating pad thai out of a bucket?"

I nod earnestly, and he laughs. "I mean it, Kurt. You'll never be less than perfect to me."

He kisses me once more before pulling away to finish unloading the groceries. I watch him, enjoying how his blush spreads down his neck. "Well, now I know what song we'll listen to on the car ride over."

* * *

><p>The restaurant is in a strip mall next to a laundromat. I feel a little overdressed in my crisp red button-down and paisley bow tie, but Kurt's appreciative glances make it worth it.<p>

It's nearly empty inside, which I guess makes sense for two-thirty on a Wednesday. The waitress seems to recognize us. She leads us to a booth in the back corner and hands us laminated menus.

"Can we get two Thai iced teas?" Kurt asks, and she nods before heading back to the kitchen.

"But what if I don't like Thai iced tea anymore?" I tease him.

"Then I'll drink them both. Pear hips be damned."

"You don't have pear hips!"

"Not if you drink your own tea I won't."

I lean my chin on my hand, gazing at him fondly. "I love you."

His eyes twinkle. "You'd better."

The waitress brings our teas, and Kurt's hips will apparently stay tiny, because mine is delicious. I drink half of it just while we're looking at the menu. "What did I usually get when we came here?" I ask.

"The green curry shrimp, or the mee kati if you were in the mood for noodles. And we'd usually split an order of Thai spring rolls."

"Wow, I had good taste. I'll order the shrimp, then." I close my menu and lay it on the edge of the table. When I look back up, I catch Kurt's tentative smile. "What?"

"It's just that you haven't really talked about Old Blaine like that before... like he's you, and you're okay with that."

"Mike and I had a talk about it," I admit.

"Oh. How'd that go?"

"He said some things that made a lot of sense."

"Did he use the metaphor about the blind men and the elephant?"

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Uh... yeah, actually. He did."

Kurt laughs. "He used to use that _all the time_, whenever he wanted to sound deep in one of our classes. He said it was an old story his grandmother told him when he visited her in rural China. You told me later that he'd actually read it in the funnies section of the newspaper when he was a kid."

"Well, it still worked," I grin. The waitress comes back with a pad of paper, taking our orders. Kurt and I chat for a while about my new-old friend Mike, and I fill him in on our bubble tea outing last night. Then, in between bites of spring roll, Kurt tells me about Mike's journey from quiet football player to show-stopping dancer.

Once our appetizer plates are cleared, Kurt leans forward, folding his arms on the table. "By the way, what happened last night?"

"What do you mean?"

"I went into my room for a little while, and when I came out you and Mike were leaving. You looked like you'd seen a ghost."

"Oh." I shift uncomfortably. "That."

"Did one of the other guys say something that upset you? Was it Puck? Finn?"

"No, no one said anything. I..." I shake my head, the memory still unsettling to think about. "I was watching Artie and Puck play that new video game, and uh... one of the villains showed up and attacked Artie's player with a crowbar." I wince as Kurt's hand flies up to his mouth. "And it wasn't good. But Mike took care of me. He's a good guy."

"And the rest of them are _assholes_," he says, looking stricken. "Did they even catch on?" My expression must give him his answer, because his jaw tightens. "I swear to god, when I get hold of Finn—"

"Finn wasn't in the room at the time. I think the other guys were just into the game. They weren't thinking about that." I pause for a moment, remembering the spell I'd had during the video game. "Kurt... I know you don't like to talk about the attack... but I have some questions about it. Questions that my parents were never willing to answer."

Kurt leans back, folding his arms and glancing around. "Here?"

"It doesn't have to be here. I just thought it might help if we could have the conversation outside of the apartment. So when we leave here, we can leave behind the ghosts we've dredged up."

"You're very strange."

"So I've been told."

"What do you want to know?"

I lick my lips, my mind racing. Somehow I didn't expect him to agree so easily. "Well, for starters, how much of it do you remember?"

"Bits and pieces. We were walking out to our cars, and we heard footsteps behind us, and..." His fingers start to rub the scar on his neck, and I swallow heavily.

"I'm sorry. We don't have to talk about this."

"No, it's... no. You're right; you deserve to know what happened." He takes a shaky breath. "I felt something sharp hit the side of my neck. Then everything went fuzzy. Blurry. I remember being in so much pain. Feeling like the attack would never end. Eventually it was just you and me, lying there. There was blood everywhere. Just... _everywhere. _I remember wondering if we had any left in our bodies."

I wrap my arms around myself, wishing I were holding him instead. What was I _thinking_, making Kurt relive this in public?

"What finally snapped me out of it," he continues, "was looking over and seeing you. You were watching me. You weren't making any noise. I crawled over to you, tried to stop the bleeding from your head, but there was so much... I eventually came to my senses and called 911 on my cell phone." His eyes grow glassy with tears. "I remember holding you in my lap, telling you to hold on, that an ambulance was on the way. You just looked up at me and didn't say anything. It was like you were studying my face. After a while you closed your eyes, like the pain had become too much to take. So I held you and waited for help to arrive."

"Oh, honey..." I reach out my hand, and he takes it, squeezing it tightly. "I didn't realize you remembered so much of it. You'd only told me the basics before."

"Honestly, I try not to think about it. Especially now that I've found you again. But you deserve to know what happened."

We hold hands tightly for a few minutes, while he regains his composure. "Kurt, something weird happened last night, while I was watching the video game," I tell him softly. "When the crowbar attack began, I had a spell. I saw you jumping in front of me, to shield me from an attacker. Was that a memory?"

He blinks. "I... I don't know. I don't remember doing that. But like I said, a lot of it is fuzzy."

"You told me that a group of people attacked us."

"Yes."

"Did you see any of their faces?"

"No, I didn't."

"You just saw their figures?"

"I..." he shakes his head. "It was blurry."

"But you're sure there were a bunch of them."

"It seemed like there were. And the cops who met with my dad said there was no way one person alone could have beaten both of us so badly in such a short amount of time, unless he was a ninja warrior or something. They do know from forensics that there was only one crowbar used in the attack, though."

"That's another thing I didn't get — how do they know it was a crowbar? Did you see it?"

"I... no."

"Did they leave it at the scene?"

"No."

"Then couldn't it have been something else?"

"No. It was a crowbar."

"How can you—"

"I have a scar," he says, his eyes pleading with me to stop. "On my leg."

"Oh, Kurt." I squeeze his hand harder. "I'm sorry. This was a mistake."

"No, it's... I mean, you deserve..."

"And _you_ deserve to have a nice night out with your boyfriend without him bringing up all these painful memories. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," he says, taking a deep breath and blinking rapidly. "But... can we talk about something else now?"

"Absolutely. What would you rather talk about?"

"Um..." He thinks for a long moment. "The importance of using toner?"

I laugh, startled. "In my printer?"

He smiles tremulously. "I'm serious. It minimizes the appearance of pores, and keeps your skin looking tight and fresh."

"So what you're saying is my pores look too big."

"Um..." He cocks his head, as if considering.

"You're ashamed to be seen with me."

"Well..."

"You think you'll become known as _that guy with the big-pored boyfriend_."

Kurt presses the back of his wrist against his mouth, giggling helplessly. He looks a bit more relaxed now, thankfully, and I think we're both grateful for the distraction when the waitress arrives with our meals. We eat with gusto, tasting each other's dishes and packing in way too many carbs for Kurt's liking. I order a big bowl of mango sorbet for dessert and feed him spoonfuls, much to his embarrassment — and much to the amusement of our waitress, whom I catch watching us from across the room. By the time we've bickered over who gets to pay the bill (I win) and who gets to pay the tip (Kurt wins), he seems like himself again.

"So," I say, as we walk hand-in-hand back to the car. "What'd we usually do after going out to eat?"

"Well, normally I'd whine about the carbs, and you'd... um..." His neck is growing flushed. "You'd suggest a way for us to burn off the calories."

"With a walk?" I ask innocently.

"Ah, no."

"A nice bike ride?"

"Nope."

"Couples calisthenics?"

He rolls his eyes. "You're ridiculous."

"I actually, um... I think I might be ready for... something. Soon." I watch him nervously, trying to gauge his reaction. When he licks his lips, I nearly groan.

"You'll keep me posted?" he asks, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.

"You'll be the first to know."

"I'd better be."

Kurt opens the passenger side door for me, and I kiss his cheek quickly before getting into the car. He heads around to the driver's seat, stopping to check his cell phone before slipping in beside me. Then, he just sits there, staring ahead.

"Kurt?" I ask finally. "Is something wrong?"

He lets out a heavy sigh, turning to look at me. "I'm deliberating."

"Over what?"

"Over whether to expose you to the crazy later tonight."

"I think I've already seen a fair amount of your crazy. Hasn't chased me off yet."

He chuckles. "Not _my_ crazy. _The _crazy."

"The..."

"We've been invited to join my friend for karaoke. At a Japanese restaurant off Route 75."

"...And the karaoke place is crazy?"

"No, the company will be. Let's just say there's a fifty-fifty chance that she'll show up wearing saddle shoes and a sweater with a pig on it."

My jaw drops. "Wait. Is it the girl you said I kissed?"

"None other than Rachel Berry herself."

"Wow. We should totally go."

He smiles, surprised. "Really? You really don't mind?"

"No, I'd love to! I can't wait to kiss her again, and see if we still have chemistry."

Kurt swats at my leg hard, and I hold up my hands in mock surrender. "Don't even _joke _about that!"

I glance around the empty parking lot, then lean over, pulling him toward me. He meets me halfway, kissing me possessively. The tips of our tongues touch, and he whines desperately, pulling me closer. "Yup, I'm gay," I tell him, dazed, and he laughs breathlessly, capturing my lips again.


	25. Chapter 25

**_A/N:_**_ So very sorry for the delay. 4x04 just annihilated me. Like... seriously, I was depressed for weeks. You were all so lovely to give me some time, and after a vacation and a week without power, I was able to get back in the groove of writing. Special, huge thanks to **t-vo0810** and **lsklainegleek **for being amazing, pinch-hitter betas for me. You two are awesome! _

* * *

><p>As it turns out, there's no need for Kurt to point out Rachel Berry. We've barely set foot in the restaurant when a tiny brunette runs over and launches herself at me.<p>

"Blaine!" she squeals, giving me a brief but tight hug. "It's really _you_! This is _fantastic_!"

"Hello, Rachel, it's nice to—"

"I've already signed us up for some duets. Endless Love, of course, and Ain't No Mountain High Enough. Then I thought we'd move into some more unusual offerings. Lucky is so overdone, but I thought that the seminal Simon and Garfunkel classic Homeward Bound might be a bit unexpected and really get the crowd going..."

"Rachel, Blaine. Blaine, Rachel," Kurt says drily. "Blaine, please be sure to note the pink saddle shoes and yellow sheep sweater."

"Noted," I reply, wide-eyed. Rachel grins and leads the two of us to a booth near the middle of the restaurant. There's a good-sized crowd here, and I feel an unexpected rush of adrenaline. I've always loved performing, and with the exception of my drunken karaoke date with Sebastian, I haven't had the chance to sing in public since my coma.

"Now, you'll notice that most of the patrons here are a lot older than us," Rachel says, once we're seated. "So we should be sure to work plenty of eighties songs into the mix to keep the audience happy. Whitney Houston, Madonna, Michael Jackson, anything Top 40. Just pretend that Mr. Schue is choosing the set list."

"Who's Mr. Schue?" I ask.

Her smile falters for a moment, but she covers quickly. "Never you mind. Here's a menu; take a look and let me know what strikes your fancy. My dads gave me their Visa card and said that dinner tonight is on them."

We order hot miso soup, age dashi tofu, edamame, and an array of vegan sushi rolls. As we eat, a few other patrons take their turns singing up on the karaoke stage. Rachel grows more confident with each song we hear. She scrunches her nose at every pitchy note and whispers that we're sure to be the hit of the night. My mouth is full of avocado roll when our names get called, and Rachel drags me up onto the stage.

"What's the song?" I ask, still chewing.

"Sky... you still like Joshua Radin, right?"

I manage to swallow just as the opening chords start, and then I'm singing, my eyes glued to the lyrics screen. Initially I feel a little nervous. My voice quavers for the first few lines. Then Rachel joins me for the chorus, and we really get into the groove of the song. The rest of the diners pause to watch us, and my eyes keep drifting back to Kurt's wide smile, and this, _this _is what I was meant to do with my life. How did I live without performing for an entire year?

We get a loud round of applause when we finish, and it only seems to fuel Rachel's mania. She keeps running up to the front to flip through the binder of song choices and fill out more slips, until it feels as though she and I are singing every other song. There are no complaints, though — the crowd clearly loves us. We keep trying to persuade Kurt to join us onstage, but he seems content to sit and watch. I beg off after a while, joining Kurt in the booth as Rachel starts doing solo numbers that make the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

"She's incredible," I murmur.

"She is," Kurt sighs. "I always figured she had hit her peak in high school, but I was wrong. New York has done wonders for her voice."

"That'll be us next year," I tell him dreamily. "We'll get into top performing arts programs, and our vocal coaches will help us get even better. We'll get so good, Broadway scouts will recruit us right out of college."

"You've got to be kidding."

I blink at him in surprise, but he's not looking at me. His gaze is fixed on the entrance to the restaurant, where Sebastian and his friend Morgan have just entered. "Oh, Kurt, don't worry about—"

He's already on his feet, though, threading his way through the tables toward them. I hurry after him, reaching the front just as Sebastian lifts his hands in surrender.

"Hey, man, we're just here for the singing. Scandals moved its karaoke night to Monday this week, and we couldn't go because Morgan had a tae kwon do tournament."

"Why are you still calling it that?" his friend asks, looking irritated. "I've told you a hundred times, it's called bojutsu, not tae kwon do."

Sebastian shrugs. "Either way it's wrestling with guys in pajamas. Anyway, I looked up places that had Wednesday night karaoke, and Siri came up with this restaurant." Sebastian looks over at me, and I take a step closer to Kurt. "Honestly, guys, we didn't know you'd be here, or we wouldn't have come. I swear."

"Well, now you know," Kurt says tightly. "And now you can leave."

Sebastian is still watching me with a searching expression. I step even closer to Kurt, interlacing our fingers and keeping my eyes on the floor. "Fine," Sebastian says at last. He starts to leave, then turns back. "Listen, Blaine—"

"Let's just go," Morgan urges.

"No, I just... I really didn't know that I was making those awful calls to you. I'm so sorry. I would never want to scare you like that."

"It's okay," I say after a pause.

"It's _not_ okay. And I hope one day you'll be able to forgive me for it." He sighs when I still won't look up. "Morgan, can you grab the car? I'll get a couple of orders of tempura to go."

After his friend leaves, Sebastian heads to the counter to place his order. Kurt and I return to our booth. We sit in a tense silence, and Kurt grits his teeth when Sebastian makes his way over to us.

"_Seriously_?"

"I just wanted to ask if I could drop the ring necklace off tomorrow afternoon," Sebastian says. "I couldn't call you to ask, so..."

"I'll be home after five," Kurt says. "Don't come before then. Understood?"

"Yeah. And Blaine, I really am—"

"You're sorry. I get it. Please just go."

He heads back to the entrance, where Morgan is watching us. They pick up their orders of food and leave. The tension in Kurt's shoulders doesn't ease, so I wind my arm around him, squeezing him lightly. "I thought you weren't letting him bother you anymore."

"Yeah, well, that was when I thought I wouldn't have to see him or his creepy face again without some warning."

I lean my chin on his shoulder, and feel him relax a little. "You can't still feel threatened by Sebastian, right? I'm not interested in him. Not even a little."

"I know you're not. It's just... Do you ever find yourself in a situation where you see someone after a long time apart, and all the old feelings associated with them come back?"

"Sure. Like when I saw you, I felt drawn to you, even if I didn't remember you."

"Exactly. Well, when I saw him standing at the door, it brought back my feelings from last year, and all I wanted to do was throw you over my shoulder and run away with you."

"Oh really," I say, my voice low. "Tell me more about your caveman urges."

He snorts indelicately. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're even hotter than usual when you get all protective and possessive."

Kurt glances around at the other patrons, but they all seem distracted by Rachel's latest performance. He scoots a little closer to me, and we snuggle for a couple of minutes while he calms down.

"How did you ever become comfortable with Finn?" I wonder aloud. "Didn't he bully you, back in school?"

"We still have our tense moments," he admits. "Usually we do just fine, but every once in a while I panic a little if he comes toward me too quickly."

"That's sad."

"It's self-preservation, I guess. Your body reacts on instinct to protect itself." He takes a sip of water, then shrugs. "Like I said, it doesn't happen often. Finn and I have a good relationship."

"What was that?" We both look up to see Rachel sliding into the seat across from us, still a little breathless from her latest number. "Sorry, you were talking about Finn?"

"I was, yes."

"Don't let me interrupt, what were you saying?"

Kurt shakes his head, a strange mix of amusement and frustration on his face. "I was done. How'd your song go?"

"Oh, you know. Billy Joel is always a surefire crowd-pleaser." She smiles wistfully. "How's he doing, anyway?"

"Billy Joel? I think he got divorced again a few years ago."

"Kurt..."

"What do you want me to say, Rachel?"

"I just want to know how he is."

"Finn's fine. He works at the shop with me and Dad."

"Is..." She closes her eyes briefly. "Is he dating anyone?"

"Yes, he's been seeing a nice girl named Sarah for about three months."

"Oh. I'd thought maybe..."

"You left him, Rachel," Kurt reminds her. "He begged you to stay, but you got on that train anyway. He's allowed to move on."

"It was my _dream_. You know that. We were all supposed to go to New York together, and—"

"We were all supposed to do a lot of things. Life got in the way."

She sighs. "Does he hate me?"

"No, of course not."

"And you?"

"What about me?"

"Do _you _hate me?"

Kurt leans forward, furrowing his brows. "Rachel—"

"Because I'd understand if you did," she interrupts. "The things I said to you, before I left..." She and Kurt both glance at me. "I had no right to say them."

"That's true. You didn't."

"I was just trying to help. If I'd had any idea he'd come back to you—"

"I don't hate you," he says. "However misguided, I know you had my best interests at heart."

"Okay." She ducks her head to hide her tear-filled eyes. "I'm glad to hear that."

"Going to New York got you closer to what you want. And staying in Lima got me back what I wanted." He nudges my shoulder with his own. "I think we all made out okay."

"And he's happy? Finn, I mean?"

Kurt nods emphatically, but I'm not convinced. Judging by her face, Rachel isn't either.

* * *

><p>We spend two more hours at the restaurant, ordering several pots of tea and desserts so that the waitress won't side-eye us about hogging the booth. Rachel sings song after song — the topics all suspiciously dealing with lost love now — while I try to talk Kurt into doing a duet with me. At first, he just shakes his head fondly. Then he starts looking a little annoyed.<p>

"Please? It'll be fun." I give him my best puppy dog eyes.

"No."

"But I've never heard you sing. Just snippets here and there..."

"I'll sing something later. When we're home."

"We can do I'll Cover You together," I grin, waggling my eyebrows. "I bet they have that one. Come on, be brave. If you want to be a performer—"

"I want to be a performer in _New York_," he hisses defensively. "Not in backwards Ohio, where having a high-pitched voice can make you the target of homophobic assholes."

My smile fades. "You think that—"

"I don't _know _what set them off that night. Maybe I'll never know. But in the meantime, I'm not going to parade around Lima flaunting my girly voice in public. It's hard enough to deal with the looks we got when we were cuddling before." He swallows, looking away. "Maybe I'm not as brave as you want me to be, Blaine. I'm sorry if that disappoints you."

"Oh, Kurt..." My first instinct is to reach for him, but I know that would only make things worse. "You're the bravest guy I know."

He scoffs. "Right."

"You _are_. I mean, look at Rachel. She knew she was too big for this place, so she ran off to New York City. She left behind the guy she loved, because waiting another year would have been too tough. But you? You put your dreams on hold without a second thought. You helped your dad get back on his feet, and waited for me to find you again."

"That's not being brave," he says. "Responsible, maybe—"

"You don't pretend to be someone you're not. You wear the most amazing outfits every day — clothes that you know make you stand out, in a place where you'd be safer blending in. You held my hand at the carnival, and you snuggled with me earlier."

"And felt like I was going to have a panic attack..."

"You don't have to _feel _brave to _be _brave. Like when you saw me again, that day at the Lima Bean. You could've walked away before I ever said a word to you. You could have just kept me as a wonderful memory. But instead you took a huge chance and made me fall in love with you all over again."

He looks at me, finally, his beautiful eyes shining. "Is that really how you see me?"

"Always."

And then — in spite of Rachel belting out Without You onstage, in spite of a roomful of conservative middle-aged couples, in spite of the fear that still makes him glance from side to side first — Kurt leans in and kisses my lips.

Like I said. Bravest guy I know.

* * *

><p>We're driving back to Rob's apartment when I finally can't resist teasing Kurt.<p>

"Your best friend wears pink saddle shoes with and star-patterned knee socks."

"Ugh, I know."

I lean my head back against the seat, turning and smiling at him fondly. "Your best friend wears sweaters with pigs and sheep on them."

"If I recall correctly, _you _were the one who made out with her."

"When I was drunk, apparently, and playing Spin the Bottle. _You_ were the one who chose her as a best friend, completely sober."

He takes a sidelong look at me and bites his bottom lip, trying and failing not to smile. "Well, _your _best friend joined Glee Club despite being pretty much tone-deaf."

"_Your_ best friend told an old man tonight that he was better off playing canasta and should stop hogging the microphone."

"_Your _best friend pulled his groin when he tried to moonwalk across the football goalpost."

We're still laughing after Kurt parks the car, and we stroll into the building arm-in-arm.

"_Your _best friend told the waitress we needed a four-person booth because her talent was so big."

"... She did not."

"No, she didn't. But you believed me for a second, didn't you?"

On the elevator ride up, Kurt nuzzles my neck, sighing. "She loved you. Still. Again. Anew. Whatever, she loved you."

"I loved her too. Though I think she's probably easier in small doses."

"You are correct, sir."

Once we're in the apartment, he hangs his coat next to mine and stretches, starting to head toward the bedroom. I clear my throat pointedly, and he turns, looking inquisitive.

"I was promised a song," I tell him, flopping down onto the couch.

"What?"

"You told me you'd sing me something once we were home. We're home." I snap my fingers like he did to our waitress earlier, and he flushes.

"What, like _now_?"

"Okay, if you insist." I grin cheekily, and he rolls his eyes.

"What am I supposed to sing?"

"Did we have a song? Like, a couples song?"

"No, not really. We had a few songs that were special to us. Like I'll Cover You, or Blackbird, or—"

I breathe in sharply, then laugh. "Blackbird?"

"The old Beatles song."

"I know it well." I don't tell him about my experience at Scandals karaoke, because I don't want Kurt thinking about Sebastian right now. This moment is all about us. "Sing me one of our songs. Sing me something that makes you love me, like Blackbird makes me love you."

He comes over to the couch, sitting at the other end and facing me. "I, um... okay, this may seem like a weird choice. But... I think I've been yours from the moment you first sang it to me."

I squeak a little with delight, hugging my knees to my chest.

Kurt hums a few notes until he finds a good starting pitch, then begins to sing. His voice is high and sweet, and so incredibly beautiful.

_Before you met me, I was all right, but things were kind of heavy_

_You brought me to life, now every February, you'll be my Valentine..._

He sneaks a questioning glance at me and I nod. _Valentine_, he sings more confidently.

_Let's go all the way tonight_

_No regrets, just love_

_We can dance until we die_

_You and I will be young forever_

_You make me feel like I'm living a_

_Teenage dream, the way you turn me on_

_I can't sleep_

_Let's run away and don't ever look back, don't ever look back_

_My heart stops when you look at me_

_Just one touch, now baby I believe_

_This is real, so take a chance and don't ever look back, don't ever look back_

As he sings, the most beautiful warmth spreads throughout my body. This isn't animal lust, or teenaged hormones. This is the overwhelming urge to crawl up inside him, wrap him around me like a blanket until we don't know where he ends and I begin.

_I might get your heart racing in my skintight jeans_

_Be your teenage dream tonight_

_I'll let you put your hands on me in my skintight—_

I pounce without warning, cutting him off with a hard kiss and climbing into his lap.

He laughs with surprise. "After all that whining, you won't even let me finish a—"

I kiss him again, and again, and again. His tongue peeks out to lick his lips and I catch it, sucking on it wetly with my own. Straddling him brings us even closer together, and he moans as our erections make contact and start to rub against each other in a slow, unsteady rhythm. My hands are in his hair, then clutching his arms, then splayed across his back, then rubbing his neck... Everything is happening too fast and too slow all at once, and my brain can't process the moment. "I want to be inside you," I tell him, surprising myself with my low, husky voice.

He's got a crushing grip on my hips, and he blinks at me dazedly. "You mean... inside my—"

"No, like... metaphorically."

He freezes for a moment, then hangs his head, pulling me into a hug and starting to giggle. "Oh my god."

"What? Is that weird?"

"No, it's just that I thought we were about to move from first base to home plate in one night, and I was getting a little freaked out." He looks up at me, his eyes warm. "You're already inside of me, Blaine. You've got me body and soul."

"Maybe, um..." I wrap my arms around his shoulders, and press my hips down again, making him hiss. "Maybe we could work on the _body_ part of that tonight."

His hands move to my waist. "You're going to have to clarify what that means, because clearly our shorthand isn't working tonight."

"Like this?" I roll my hips again, and again. "I know it's probably not as comfortable with clothes on, but I don't think I'm ready to try—"

He kisses me hard, guiding my hips into a steadier rhythm and gasping into my mouth. "This is perfect, baby, this is amazing."

"It feels so good," I whimper, feeling him harden further against me. "God, if they'd told us in Sex Ed that rubbing genitals would feel this good—"

Kurt throws back his head and laughs again, covering his face with his hands. "Oh my god, no."

"What?"

"Did you just say _genitals_?"

"Well, I mean, I'm sure rubbing feels good to girls, too. No need to get gender-specific..."

"Blaine. When I'm hard, and you're hard, just... just don't use the word genitals. Just don't." He giggles helplessly. "Oh my god, I can't believe I have to explain this to you."

"I wouldn't _normally_ use it, I'm just saying—"

"Say cock. Say dick. Say _schlong _if you must, but not genitals." He grabs onto my hips again, thrusting up against me.

I ground down harder, making him grunt and move faster. "Mmm yeah, baby, I love your _schlong_. Let's rub our _schlongs_ together, just like that."

We're both laughing now, humping faster and kissing furiously between giggles. He moves his hands further down, glancing up at me with raised eyebrows. When I nod, he groans and grabs my ass with both hands, squeezing hard. My pants feel incredibly tight, the friction getting uncomfortable. It would be so easy to just undo the fly and shuck them off, so we could move against each other in our underwear. But I can't bear to pull away from Kurt for even a second, and all too soon, I feel a familiar tightening low in my belly.

"Kurt—"

"I know."

"I'm gonna—"

"I know."

It hits me suddenly, a ragged moan escaping my lips as I come hard, a white heat enveloping me as my hips stutter against him. He ruts against me a while longer before crying out and stilling, his grip on me still tight. We're both panting, clutching each other as we struggle to catch our breath.

"Holy shit," I gasp. "That was..."

"Unexpected?" he manages, kissing the side of my neck.

"Try _amazing_." I pull back and beam at him. He looks equal parts sated and stunned. "I didn't know there'd be so much laughing, though."

"That's another thing they don't tell you in Sex Ed. Sometimes it's okay to laugh during sex."

I blink. "We had sex?"

"We did."

"But we're still fully dressed."

"Yet _another _thing they don't—"

"I get it. The Sex Ed curriculum needs work." I sigh, snuggling against him and closing my eyes. "So... I'm not a virgin anymore?"

"Well, everyone has their own definition of sex. If you—"

"I'm not a virgin anymore," I say decisively, pulling back a little with a smirk. "You deflowered me."

"I did. " He looks sort of proud. "Twice, actually."

We smile at each other for a long time, stealing little kisses. Then my smile fades. "Oh..."

"Yeah."

"It's all... sticky... down there."

"Yep."

"And I think it's turning into a... a cold glue..."

"Be thankful Rob has a washer and dryer. I'll let you take the shower first?"


	26. Chapter 26

**_A/N:_**_ Massive thanks to **t-vo0810** — not only for being a beta, but also a sounding board for plot pacing. She's amazing._

_As for the chapter... this was always the plan. Hold on tight._

* * *

><p>Things feel different, somehow.<p>

I get it now. The big deal everyone makes about sex; I _get _it. It's not about the pleasure, not really. It's about being so close to someone, opening yourself up to him, trusting him completely to catch you when you fall.

The connection doesn't just wash down the drain in the shower, either. It's just as strong when Kurt emerges from the bathroom, his face glowing with some sort of facial tonic. I look at him, and all I can think is _forever._

We settle into bed together, blushing and smiling. Before he can turn and wait for me to spoon him, I clear my throat. "Um... Kurt?"

"Mm?" He grins at me drowsily. "Not ready for round two already, are you? Because I'm pretty tired."

"Round... no, no," I laugh, my voice sounding too high. "I wanted to ask you something. Well... I wanted to ask if something would be okay with you. Something I wanted to do."

He props his head up on his hand, looking curious. "I'm listening..."

"Tomorrow evening, when Sebastian drops off my promise ring..." I steel myself. "I want to put it on."

"Well of course you can, honey," he says. "It's not like we'll put it in the safe, right? I'm sure he'll drop off the chain you used, too, and you can wear it under your clothes just like I do—"

"I don't want to wear it under my clothes. I want to put it on my finger. Actually... I want _you _to put it on my finger."

He stares at me. "What?"

"I know you're it for me. I know that we're going to be together forever."

"So why would you need to wear the ring?"

"Because I want everyone else to know, too. Wearing it will show them how proud I am to be with you."

He sits up, looking away. "I'd rather you not."

I'd prepared myself for this possibility, but it still stings. "Why?"

"Because that was something I did with... with Old Blaine. We should do our own things together."

"You want to get different promise rings? But you designed these... They were special to us."

"No, I don't—" he breaks off, looking frustrated. "Never mind."

"What?"

"It's just that those rings don't hold the same meaning for me anymore. They stopped holding their _promise _right around the time when I found out you'd forgotten me."

"And yet you kept wearing yours. So what did it come to mean to you, then? That _you _hadn't forgotten _me_? Or did you wear it in the hopes that you'd get Old Blaine back?"

"Can we just drop it?"

"That's what it is, isn't it?" I can hear the hurt in my own voice, and it makes me cringe. "You were waiting for him to come back. You're _still_ waiting. That's your secret hope."

"That's my secret _fear_," he snaps. "Do you think it's easy for me, waking up every morning, and waiting to see who ends up waking up beside me? Every time we go to sleep, I wonder if this will be my last night with you. I wonder if you'll wake up as Old Blaine and you won't want me anymore."

"What are you _talking _about?"

"I keep telling you, I wouldn't be compatible with him. I've changed too much. And if you suddenly woke up and remembered all the time that you lost... and forgot what's happened during these last few weeks..."

"Memory doesn't work like that."

"Your doctors said it themselves — no one can predict what the brain will or won't do. I don't have any way of knowing how long I'll have you, Blaine, and that _terrifies_ me." He lets out a shaky breath, staring up at the ceiling. "You're right that I'm waiting for him to come back. But don't think for a second that I'm hoping for it."

I pull the covers up to my chin, feeling miserable. "So I'm just a ticking time bomb, then. You'll never feel settled with me, because you'll always be waiting for me to forget you again."

"No, you're... no."

"You say you want me more than you want Old Blaine—"

"I _do_—"

"—and yet _he_ was the one who got to wear the promise ring. _He_ got to put your ring on your finger. _He _was the one who got to make plans for the future with you. How do you think that makes me feel?"

Kurt turns to face me. His gaze lingers on me for what seems like hours, before he breathes out, "You're right."

"... I am?"

"Of course you are. I'm not being fair to you. But baby... you have to understand. It's been, what, two weeks since we found each other again?"

"Sixteen days," I supply, and he smiles.

"Sixteen of the most amazing days of my life," he says softly. "But they came after the eleven _worst _months of my life."

"I know," I whisper back. "I know how hard it must be for you to change gears like that."

"And harder still, this time of the year." He reaches a hand up to trace the scar on my head gently. "We're nearing the anniversary of the attack. Makes everything seem a little unreal, you know?"

I capture his hand and hold it close to my heart. "_This_ is real. What we have is real, and no one can touch that."

"I know. Just give me a little time for my head to catch up to my heart, okay?"

"I will." Kurt leans down, and we kiss each other lightly. He settles back down beside me, still looking pensive. "You know, Kurt," I venture, "you shouldn't ever worry about whether Old Blaine will come back."

"Why not?"

"Because even if he did... I think you could make any version of me fall in love with you."

I expect him to smile at that, but he just turns away, letting me hold him from behind.

* * *

><p>The sharp smell of coffee wakes me in the morning. It's strong and rich-scented, and when I open my eyes I see a Starbucks cup sitting on my nightstand. I sit up in bed, blinking blearily. "Kurt?"<p>

"In here."

It sounds like his voice came from the living room, so I grab my coffee cup and pad out of the bedroom. He's fully dressed, standing with his hands on his hips in the middle of the room.

"Kurt? What are you doing?"

He looks unsettled. "Is something off about this room? Did the pillows on the couch used to be arranged differently?"

I look over at them, sipping my coffee. "Uh... I have no idea."

"Something's... off." He rubs at the side of his neck. "Something feels..."

"Kurt. What's going on?"

He looks over at me finally, his eyes wide. "I don't _know_ what's going on. Everything was fine this morning. We were out of coffee so I drove over to Starbucks to buy some, and... I kept getting this weird feeling like someone was watching me."

"Sounds creepy."

"It _was _creepy. And it got worse once I got back to the apartment. I can't figure out what's... different..."

"Sebastian's coming today," I remind him. "It probably makes you feel anxious. That's all."

"Maybe you're right." He takes a swig of his own coffee, then seems to come back to himself. "Oh, sorry. Good morning." He comes over to kiss me. I latch onto his elbow, kissing him thoroughly and hoping the coffee helps mask my morning breath.

"Morning," I echo. "Sorry your day had such a tense start."

"It's okay. Although I was thinking on the way back, when we use the door we should have some sort of secret knock."

"And a secret handshake," I nod, my eyes wide.

"I'm _serious_. Imagine if Sebastian came over early tonight and a helpful neighbor let him into the building. Imagine you heard a knock on the door and opened it without thinking, and it was him."

"Yeah, that'd be awful. I mean, I think I could resist his advances for a good ten minutes or so, but after that—"

"Mock me all you want, but I want a secret knock." He sets his cup on the coffee table decisively, then goes out into the hall, shutting the door behind him. "Okay," he calls through the door. "Ready?" Then I hear: _knock knock knock-knock knock-knock knock knock knock._

"Who is it?" I say in a sing-song voice.

He opens the door, scowling. "It's the first line of Blackbird. _Blackbird sing-ing in-the dead of night. _Here, now you try it." He pulls me out into the hallway, then goes inside, shutting the door.

It's strange. Once I'm out here in the hallway alone, I get the same sort of sensation Kurt described. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I glance around the empty hallway quickly. For a moment, I'm sure I can see someone lurking around the corner down the hall. I try the doorknob, but it's locked. "Kurt, let me in," I call out anxiously.

"Not until you do the secret knock." I rap on the door at once: _knock knock knock-knock knock-knock knock knock knock. _It swings open right away, and he pulls me inside. I heave a sigh of relief as he shuts the door behind us. "Thank you," he says. "I know it sounds stupid, but it'll make me feel better in case I'm delayed getting back tonight."

"I don't see why _you'd _have to knock, though," I point out. "You've got a key."

"You should really pull all the locks when you're home alone. The chain and the slide-lock, too. I don't mind having to wait while you unlock them." He glances at his phone, then makes a low noise of displeasure. "Ugh, I'm late. I told Dad I'd be at work by now. I'll see you by five o'clock, okay?" He kisses me again, then heads for the door. "Don't forget to set the locks."

"Yeah, yeah." After he leaves, I secure the three locks, then turn to forage for breakfast. Suddenly three sharp knocks sound from the door, and I laugh. "Nice try, Hummel."

"Love you," he calls, before running back toward the elevator.

* * *

><p>I spend much of the morning on the computer, researching apartments in New York City. I fall madly in love twice — once with a walk-up in Chelsea and once with a studio in the West Village — but both come with a steep price tag. Judging by what Kurt told me about his family's financial struggles, my guess is he'll be on a very limited budget. I have a sizable trust fund set up, so money isn't an issue for me. Now I just have to figure out how to convince Kurt to let me pay more than half of the rent. I click through the online tours of apartments dreamily, deciding how we'll arrange our furniture.<p>

Then I realize I'm being ridiculous; we don't even _own _furniture. So I spend a couple of hours researching the best places to buy high-quality, gently used furniture in New York.

Mike texts me around noon, asking if I want to go see the new James Bond movie with him tonight. Much as I'd like to, I suspect Kurt will be feeling a little raw and possessive once Sebastian leaves, and I know I won't want to leave him alone.

_Another time? _I text back.

Almost immediately, he responds. _Sure. I'm home for break until January 2nd. You staying at Rob's place the whole time?_

_Not sure yet. Maybe._

_What about your parents? Aren't you going to spend Christmas with them?_

I scowl a little, typing back: _Is this the part of the conversation where you lay the Asian guilt trip on me?_

_Not sure yet. Maybe._

I toss my phone on the couch, heading to the kitchen to fix myself some lunch. Mike's not wrong, but I'm still not ready to talk to my parents face-to-face. It is weird, though, to have gone twelve whole days without seeing them. I can't remember a time in my life when we were apart for so long.

I take my time constructing a truly magnificent salad out of spinach, fruits, seeds and nuts, then pick at it as I sneak glances at the cell phone. Finally I give up on the salad, marching over and picking up the phone.

_Doing fine_, I type out. _Hope you are as well. _I send it to my father before I can change my mind. Then I add a drizzle of olive oil to my salad before trying again to eat it. Nearly fifteen minutes go by before my dad responds.

_Sorry for the delay, I was in a meeting. Thank you for your text. We've been worried about you. Will we see you on Christmas?_

I bite down on a walnut a little harder than necessary, mulling over a response. Finally I write: _I've been with Kurt. We've been getting to know each other again. It's a slow process. I don't know about Christmas yet._

I finish eating my salad, before rinsing my plate and fork and stacking them in the dishwasher. There's still no response from him.

I'm curled up on the couch watching old reruns of Ellen when I finally hear from him: _I understand. It's good to know that either way you'll be spending the holiday with someone who loves you._

I burrow down further into the couch, and resolve that at the very least, I'll stop by their house on Christmas.

* * *

><p>It's just past four fifteen when the intercom by the door buzzes. Curious, I make my way over to it, pressing the button. "Um... Hello?"<p>

"I've got a package here for Blaine Anderson. A very_ long_,_ thick _package, in fact."

"You're early, Sebastian."

"I left home early to account for traffic, but there were hardly any cars on the road."

"Kurt should be back by five. He'll let you into the building then."

"So you're going to make me wait out here in the freezing cold for forty-five minutes?"

"You agreed you wouldn't come before five."

"Can't help it if traffic was light."

"I'm not going to buzz you in."

"Fine, fine. I'll just stand out here until I freeze to death and get all stiff. And _not _in the fun way."

* * *

><p>At four thirty, the intercom buzzes again.<p>

"What?" I ask.

"Just wanted to point out that people have been coming and going through the main entrance, and I'm still out here. Haven't even set foot in the foyer."

"So you're following our agreement. Terrific."

"It's _freezing_, man. Can't I just stand inside? Kurt's not supposed to be back for another half hour." He waits while I think it over, then adds: "I'm being a good guy by asking you. I could've been inside already if I'd entered the pass code."

I blink. "You know our code?"

"Sure, you said it that night at Scandals, when you were on the phone with the cab company. 23069."

"How did you—"

"Mr. Peterson gives a seminar on memorization techniques every semester before exams. Say any number ten digits or less around a Dalton boy, and he'll remember it forever. Plus, your code was easy. It reminded me of my favorite kind of date."

"What kind..."

"One that ends with a _69_." He laughs too loudly. "Come on. Just let me stand inside."

"Fine," I groan, buzzing him in. Then I flop down on the couch, flipping through a fashion magazine and ignoring the nervous knot in my stomach.

* * *

><p>At four forty-five, Kurt calls, sounding harried<p>

"There was an accident," he tells me, and I gasp.

"You were in an _accident_?"

"No, not me. A tractor trailer took a sharp turn too fast and flipped over onto its side. Looks like the driver made it out okay, but now the truck is taking up all the lanes in both directions. We've been sitting here for ages. I don't know when I'll be able to get to you. Let's hope Sebastian will run late."

I wince a little. "Actually... Sebastian's already been here for half an hour."

"Wait, you let him into the apartment?" Kurt squeaks.

"No, no, he's downstairs in the foyer. I didn't even tell him which apartment we're in." Although, now that I think about it, he probably remembers from when I called the cab company. "Should I go down and get the promise ring from him now? Or ask him to slide it under our door?"

"No, just... just stay put. The tow truck just showed up, so I think traffic should start moving again soon. I'll be there ASAP... talk to you later."

"I love you," I tell him, but he's already hung up.

* * *

><p>By five, Kurt's still not back. I've taken to pacing back and forth across the living room, chewing on my thumbnail.<p>

A few minutes past five, I hear the elevator ding down the hall. Slow, careful footsteps approach the apartment before stopping. There are three short raps on the door, but I stand perfectly still.

"Come on, Blaine," Sebastian calls out, sounding irritated. "This is dumb. We can be civil to each other long enough for me to hand you a stupid ring."

He's right, of course, but I still can't seem to shake the uneasy feeling from this morning. I don't move, and eventually he lets out an exasperated huff and walks back to the elevator.

I don't start to breathe normally again until I hear the telltale pings, as the elevator starts to descend.

* * *

><p>It's five twenty-five when I hear the elevator ding again. The footsteps coming down the hall are faster this time, mixed with heavy breathing. Then I hear: <em>knock knock knock-knock knock-knock knock knock knock.<em>

I let out a sigh of relief, making my way over to the door and flipping the slide-lock, pulling the chain and yanking the door open. "I was starting to—"

There's a flash of movement.

Then there's blinding pain.

Then there's nothing at all.


	27. Chapter 27

**_A/N: _****_PLEASE READ THE FOLLOWING TRIGGER WARNING._**

**_Trigger warning_**_: The next two chapters deal with violence and its aftermath. With everything going on in the world right now, it could be very triggery. Please do not read if you think it will upset you further. I cried through writing most of this. So I know if it's triggery for me, there are others like me out there. Please don't needlessly upset yourself; it's just a story and it'll be there in a month or three if you aren't ready right now. I thought about just ditching the storyline as a result of last week's horror, and maybe I should have, but I didn't know where else to go with the story since this was always the plan. I don't want to upset people... there's just no winning with this situation. So please know your own limits and stop if it gets overwhelming._

_Also, and I hate that we always feel more compelled in moments of great loss to say these things, but I love you guys. I really do. You're such warm, passionate, kind people, and it's been my privilege to write for you._

_A million thanks to _**_t-vo0810_**_ for her wonderful beta services._

* * *

><p>I was twelve when my cousin Rob bought an apartment a few towns over from ours.<p>

He'd moved to New York City after finishing graduate school, and bought the little apartment here so that he'd have somewhere local to stay when he came home for holidays or vacations. Rob was a busy stockbroker in his twenties, but he always seemed to make time for me. I remember sitting on the floor in his new, empty apartment, helping him set out paint samples and carpet swatches.

"Which of these colors do you like best for the walls?" he asked me. "This one might be a little too yellow... this one seems too green... and this one has a touch too much orange in it. I just can't decide."

I squinted hard at the four samples in his hand, but they all looked like the exact same shade of gray to me. "Maybe this one," I said hesitantly, pointing at the only one that Rob hadn't complained about. "I like how... um... how gray it is."

"Sold." Rob flipped the card into a bowl, where it landed perfectly. "I'll get coordinating carpeting for the two bedrooms. But for the living room, I'll want to keep the hardwood floors and just add a nice area rug. Which of these do you prefer?" He laid out a series of magazine clippings, showing different rugs with gray-and-white patterns.

We debated between two rugs in particular, but ending up settling on a thick wool one with a geometric pattern on it. The day we helped Rob move in, he sneaked me my own copy of the key.

"What's this for?" I asked.

"I keep reading about all the pressures that kids like you are under these days." He glanced over his shoulder, making sure that my parents were still in the dining room, out of earshot. "I thought maybe it'd help if you had a place that you could go to when you needed to get away."

"Away from my parents?"

"Away from anything. And I don't mind if you... if you bring someone over, either."

I blinked, my eyes wide. "You mean... like a girl?"

"No, kiddo. I don't mean like a girl."

It was only then that I realized why Rob had asked for my opinions about decorating the apartment. This wasn't a home for him after all.

* * *

><p>Time is standing very, very still. Time is perfectly still, and Rob's rug is ruined.<p>

I watch as the red liquid drip-drops off the crowbar, seeping slowly into the gray and white fibers of the rug.

As if the blood weren't bad enough, someone vomited on the rug in front of me. From the taste in my mouth and the sticky feeling on my lips, I suspect it was probably me.

"Just get over here... No, you've got to get over here _now_. I... I started hitting him and then I couldn't stop. I think I might have _killed _him." Someone is pacing back and forth across the kitchen, talking in a fast, choked voice. It sounds as though he's crying. "Please, man, I need your help. I need you to check on him and see if he's dead. _Please_."

I'm not dead. At least, I don't think I am.

I'm lying on my side, partially under the coffee table, facing the door. My head is killing me. So is my shoulder.

This is not how things were supposed to go. I was supposed to be safe here, in my little haven that Rob created to protect me from the outside world.

I force myself to breathe in and out, in and out. Breathing is important. If I'm breathing, I'm still alive.

The crowbar is covered with blood — so much blood that I start to wonder how badly I'm hurt. Holding my breath against the pain in my head, I run my hand slowly over my body, but it doesn't seem like I'm injured anywhere else. Feels like he hit me in the head and I went down. Jammed my shoulder on the edge of the coffee table. Dislocated it, maybe.

I should probably try to stop the bleeding from my head, though. So much blood on that crowbar. So much blood pooling on Rob's rug. I sweep my eyes from side to side, looking for something nearby to use. My gaze lands on the blanket folded on the couch, and my breathing turns unsteady. It was just last night that Kurt and I were on that couch together, kissing and moving hard against each other, laughing and loving—

Someone is pacing again in the kitchen. I wonder what he'll he do when he finds out I'm not dead after all.

He comes into the living room, picking up the crowbar and choking back a sob before dropping it with a dull clatter: "This isn't happening. This is not happening."

It's Sebastian's friend. The one with the mole on his face. The one who hooks up with Sebastian when he's drunk, and does bojutsu, and... I close my eyes. Shit. _Bojutsu_.

It's easier to just keep my eyes closed. The light hurts my head, and when I close my eyes, I can pretend this is just another one of the migraines I used to get. I can imagine that Mom is boiling water for tea, and Dad is laying another cool washcloth on my forehead.

It's easier.

Morgan dials his phone again, sounding frantic when the call connects. "What the fuck, man, where _are_ you?" A knock comes on the door just then. I crack my eyes open to watch as he drops the phone on an armchair and hurries over to check the peephole before pulling the door open. "About time, I've been waiting here forever."

His other friend — Lawrence — comes through the door quickly, pulling it closed behind him and setting the locks. He turns toward us, looking down at me. My eyes clamp shut at once, but I'm pretty sure he saw me watching him. "Morgan, what the _hell_."

"Please, _please, _I need you to check and see if... if he's dead... if I killed him..." Morgan starts to cry again. "I don't know what to do. I keep washing my hands, but I can't get his blood off them." He heads over to the kitchen again, turning on the water full blast.

When I open my eyes again, Lawrence is looking at me. I can't read his expression.

"Jesus, are you still _standing_ there?" Morgan calls out over the sound of the water. "I need you to _check_ on him!"

I wait for Lawrence to tell him that I'm not dead, but he doesn't. Instead, he turns and leaves the apartment.

The blood on the crowbar is darkening. So is the blood on the rug. So much blood, everywhere. An old Michael Jackson song starts to play in my head, for some reason: _Annie are you okay, are you okay Annie? _I swallow thickly, trying to keep myself from vomiting again.

_She ran underneath the table_

_He could see she wasn't able_

Why didn't Lawrence tell Morgan that I'm alive? He definitely saw me watching him. Maybe he went to get help. Maybe he called 9-1-1, and an ambulance is already on the way.

I hope so. The pain in my head is getting worse.

I should probably do something to stop the bleeding, before I lose too much blood. Gingerly, I lift my hand and run my fingertips gently over my head. There's a nasty goose egg on the left side, just above my ear, but when I pull my hand back and peek at it, there's no blood on my fingers.

_You were struck down, it was your doom_

Sometimes it's a good thing to have your head bleed. Because it relieves the pressure. I almost wonder if I should try to find something to pierce the goose egg, to help with the swelling. The pain is getting unbearable as I close my eyes, trying to breathe quietly.

_There's a sign in the window that he struck you, a crescendo Annie_

Stupid song. Stupid Michael Jackson with his stupid creepy songs.

_You were struck down, it was your doom_

Morgan is crying again in the kitchen, big heaving sobs. Seems almost cruel that Lawrence didn't just put him out of his misery and tell him he didn't kill me.

_A crescendo Annie_

_He came into your apartment, he left the bloodstains on the carpet_

Wait.

_He left the bloodstains—_

My eyes fly open, my breaths coming faster.

If I'm not bleeding... then whose blood is all over the crowbar?

My gaze swings over to the DVD player, and I can't stifle my groan of horror when I see the time display. It's almost five forty-five. Kurt should have been back ages ago.

Oh, god.

_Kurt_.

I'm vomiting again, big gagging heaves that bring up nothing but yellow bile. He should be here by now. The last time I talked to him was nearly an hour ago, and he said then that a tow truck had arrived to take away the toppled tractor trailer. He must have run into Morgan on his way in, and—

I spit out the last of the vomit, trying to force myself to think. Kurt is somewhere in this building, and if Morgan's state of hysteria is anything to go by, he's injured badly. I have to save him.

I look around the room again. Can't look at the crowbar, can't look at the blood on the carpet. Can't think about the warmth of Kurt's smile or the soft lilt of his voice. I have to focus on getting help.

Where's my cell phone? I pat down the front of my jeans with my free hand, but my pockets are empty. Where did I put it after Kurt and I last spoke? I have a vague recollection of putting it on the charger in my room, but I don't know if that was today or yesterday. Time seems hazy and indistinct.

My eyes swing over to the armchair by the couch, and my pulse quickens. Morgan's phone is laying on the seat. I'm roughly six feet away from it.

On a normal day, it would take me two strides to reach it.

This isn't a normal day.

I try rolling off my bad shoulder, and can't help crying out softly at the pain that shoots through it. Luckily Morgan is washing his hands again and doesn't appear to hear me. I manage to get onto my back, catching my breath and gritting my teeth. I have to do this. I have to make it to that phone. I've got to save Kurt.

I hold my breath before pushing myself up with my good arm. The motion makes my head pound, but at least I'm sitting up now. The phone doesn't seem as far away now. I ease myself toward it slowly, balancing unsteadily on my knees. For a brief moment, I consider using the crowbar to bridge the last distance, but I can't bring myself to touch it. It's too easy to picture Kurt's ashen face, contorted in fear as Morgan approaches him with his crowbar at his side. Another few feet and I reach the phone, swallowing a cry of relief when my fingers grasp it.

Morgan shuts off the water, and I freeze in horror. If he comes to the corner of the kitchen and looks over here, he'll see me. I crouch down slowly, crawling back toward the table. He's pacing again, and his footfalls help drown out the faint whimpers of pain I can't suppress.

Finally I make it back to my spot under the coffee table. I cradle the cell phone like a lifeline. I did it, I _got_ it, and I'm going to save him. I press the power button and my heart sinks.

There's a password to unlock the phone.

I enter 1-2-3-4. Then 0-0-0-0, then 1-1-1-1. Then I just start pressing random numbers, my chest gasping for air. This can't be happening. I can't have come so close, only to fail him. My vision grows blurry with tears of frustration as I press every combination I can think of. Then I hear the ping of the elevator, and heavy footfalls coming down the hall. I shove the phone in my pocket and lie still, hot tears trickling down my cheeks.

The footsteps stop outside the apartment, before the doorknob turns slowly. Lawrence enters the apartment, closing the door behind him and setting the locks. When he turns toward me, he looks as though he's seen a ghost.

I can't bring myself to play dead. It's not like I could hide my shuddering breaths at this point. I catch his eye, pleading with him silently, but he just scowls.

"All you had to do was stay away from him," he whispers fiercely, his jaw tight. "You act like you don't even _like _him; why couldn't you have just stayed away?" He rubs his face with his palms before walking toward the kitchen. I hear Morgan stop pacing abruptly, and there's a moment of pregnant silence.

"Well?" Morgan says finally, his voice thick with tears.

"He's alive," Lawrence responds, and I feel my chest expand with relief. There's still time to save Kurt. I just have to think of a way. I pull out the phone again, trying more random combinations of numbers. "He... he doesn't look good, Morgan."

"I _know _he doesn't look good, why do you think I _called _you?" The pacing begins again.

"He needs a doctor," Lawrence murmurs.

"There's got to be a way out of this," Morgan says. "We have to find a way to fix this."

"_Fix _this?" comes the incredulous reply. "Our best friend is lying in a pool of his own blood in the stairwell. How exactly are we supposed to fix him?"

My thumb stills on the keypad. I can hear the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears.

It's not Kurt.

It's Sebastian.

I squeeze my eyes shut tight, gasping with relief. _It's not Kurt_. There's no way Lawrence would let his friend die, I'm sure of it. He'll talk Morgan into calling an ambulance, and they'll save us both, and the police will arrest Morgan. And Kurt and I, we can finally stop looking over our shoulders. We can finally start living our lives together.

My head hurts worse than ever, but the relief is so palpable, I barely notice. I barely notice Morgan and Lawrence arguing in the kitchen, and I barely notice the ping of the elevator down the hall, and I barely notice the footsteps approaching the door.

But then I hear a sound that cuts through the pain, and the fog, and terrifies me to my core.

_Knock knock knock-knock knock-knock knock knock knock._


	28. Chapter 28

**_A/N:_**_ The previous chapter's _**_trigger warnings_**_ for violence still apply to this chapter._

_I get a lot of unpleasant reviews and PMs about unresolved endings (some of you call them cliffhangers), so I'll say it here and now, don't read this chapter if you need a resolution at the end. And if you read it anyway, despite that warning, then please don't post hate to me about it. I can't tell you how disheartening it is to get nasty notes calling me awful names and demanding updates — and it makes the writing process take so much longer. I mean, would _**_you _**_put everything in your life aside to write for people who were unkind to you?_

_A million, trillion, bazillion thanks to _**_t-vo0810_**_, who pointed out some very large characterization flaws in my draft and helped me completely retool the chapter. Thanks, too, to _**_cakecakecake13_**_, who shared her medical expertise with regard to Blaine's injury._

_(and kudos to _**_bleviee_**_, who got an advance draft of the chapter earlier tonight for being the winner of the tumblr game!)_

* * *

><p>For a moment, my aching brain convinces me that if I stay very still, Kurt will go away. I don't even dare to take a breath. Then the sound comes again:<p>

_Knock knock knock-knock knock-knock knock knock knock._

"Shut up," I whisper fiercely, squeezing my eyes shut. "Shut up go away shut up shut up—"

"Blaine?" he calls. Loud, _too loud_. "Are you there? I tried calling you earlier... It took longer than expected to hook up the tow truck and everything..."

Shut up, Kurt, _shut up._ Morgan and Lawrence are still arguing in the kitchen, but Kurt's voice is getting louder, and it's only a matter of time before they hear him. I shove myself up into a seated position with my good arm, then crawl toward the door as quickly as I can. My head is killing me, but it helps when I focus on just two things: quieting Kurt, and getting him out of here.

I hear the sliding twist of his key in the lock, and then the door rattling slightly as I stumble toward it. "Well, at least you remembered to pull the extra locks. Can you hear me? Blaine?"

"Ssh, quiet, quiet," I gasp, reaching the door.

"There you are," he says. "Quick, open up, I picked up a chocolate cheesecake at the bakery after work, but I'm worried it's gotten mushy after sitting in the car for that long." He lets out a deep sigh while I listen to make sure Morgan and Lawrence are still talking. "All I want to do is eat a big slice of cheesecake while you hold me. Can you arrange that?"

"Kurt, for god's sake, be quiet," I hiss.

"Are... are you on the floor?"

"Please, keep your voice down, he'll _hear_ you."

"Who'll hear me?" When I don't say anything, he groans. "Don't tell me you let Sebastian in there with you."

"I, uh..." I close my eyes briefly. "Yes. Yes I did."

"Well, take your ring back and kick him out. I'm too exhausted to deal with him right now."

"No."

"...No? You don't want the ring back?"

_Please forgive me for this one day, Kurt. _

"I'm not sending him away. I'm sending you away."

"What are you talking about?"

"I... don't choose you. I choose Sebastian."

There's a very long pause, during which I can hear Lawrence yelling about just how much blood Sebastian has already lost in the stairwell. I send up a silent prayer that Kurt can't hear him.

"Blaine, come on, open the door, this isn't funny."

"Not trying to be funny. He... he came by and one thing led to another and we, uh... had sex."

He hesitates. "Uh huh."

"We did. With each other. _Real _sex," I stress, trying and failing to think of the term. "Like, the kind with butts."

"Who topped?"

I freeze. "What?"

"If you two had anal sex, who topped? Did you have sex with his butt?"

"Oh, god, no." The thought makes my empty stomach turn again.

"So he had sex with _your _butt?"

"Ew, that's even worse, no..."

"So you, what, rubbed your butts together?"

He's coming up with his retorts too quickly, and my throbbing brain can't keep up. "Kurt..."

"Come on, Blaine, I may be a little insecure, but even I know you wouldn't jump into bed with Sebastian just because I was late coming home one day. What's really going on? Why won't you open the door, and why are you sitting on the floor?"

Morgan's shouts are getting louder, and fear is circling around me like a whirlpool, threatening to pull me under. "I just need you to go away for a while," I plead. "You can come back in a few hours, but you can't be here right now."

"Why not?"

My breaths are getting faster and faster. "I... I can't..."

"Hey," he says, and I hear the shift of his clothes as he crouches down. "Oh, baby, are you having a panic attack? Is that why you're on the floor? Did something scare you?"

"Yeah," I gasp out.

He makes a soft sound of sympathy. "And we don't have any sturdy closet shelves for you to hide in."

"N-no."

He reaches under the door, and I see the tips of his fingers come just within reach. Gratefully, I reach under too, sliding my fingertips against his. "Are you scared because of Sebastian?" he asks gently. "Did he come by earlier?"

"Yeah."

"But he's gone now?"

"Yeah." I squeeze my eyes closed, trying not to think about Sebastian lying in the stairwell. "Yeah, he's gone now."

"Open the door, honey, I can help you—"

"No. Please, just give me some time alone."

He's quiet for a long moment. Then he murmurs, "One hour. I'll leave for one hour. Okay?"

"Two hours."

"_One_."

"Fine, but go now."

"Can I stick the cheesecake in the fridge first?"

"Kurt, pl-please, just _go_."

"Okay," he soothes. "Okay, I'm sorry, I'll go. Call me if you want me back sooner, all right?"

"I will."

He strokes my fingertips lightly before pulling back and standing up. "I love you, Blaine."

"I love you too." I lean my forehead against the door, trying to steady my breathing. "More than... more than anything. More than everything."

He walks back toward the elevator, and I slump down, exhausted by the effort that just took. The rug is soft under my cheek, and I close my eyes, listening to the angry voices coming from the kitchen.

"You told me _they _attacked _you _last year! You promised me it was self-defense!"

"It _was _self-defense!"

"Oh, right, I'm sure that one kid sang high notes at you until your eardrums exploded—"

"You don't just fight someone using your fists, Lawrence. Blaine was threatening the relationship between Sebastian and me—"

"You've got to be _kidding _me. He sleeps with you when he's _drunk_. You call that a relationship?"

"Blaine already has a boyfriend! He shouldn't have been going after another guy... Sebastian was my only option!"

"Your only option. So you decide to beat him within an inch of his life?"

"He laughed at me!"

"He... what?"

"I hung around this building today, because I just knew after we saw Blaine in the restaurant yesterday, I _knew _he'd try to go see him. He went up to the apartment, and when he came back down I was waiting. And I told him. Told him I was in love with him, and he _laughed_ at me. He said—"

Suddenly my attention shifts, as I realize there are footsteps coming to a stop right outside the door.

"Blaine?" comes a faint call, and my heart sinks.

"Go away, Kurt," I murmur. I try to lift my head, but it hurts too badly.

"I got into the elevator," he says, and I hear a soft thump as he drops to his knees. "And I was balancing the cheesecake while I took out my car keys, and my shoe slid a little on the carpet in the elevator, and... and I looked down..."

I swallow back a whimper. "Please, just—"

"And there was this circle of wet stuff in the elevator. It... it got it on my shoe, so I leaned down to wipe it off..." He's breathing quickly, too quickly. Like he does when he's scared. "And it was blood. There's blood in our elevator. A pool of it. And then I noticed that there were little spots, leading out of the elevator, so I followed them, followed the blood drops, and they led... they led here. Blaine, there's a trail of blood in the hallway, and it leads to our door."

My eyes are blurry with tears again. What haven't I ruined today? I demonstrated our secret knock in the hallway when Morgan must have been lurking around the corner. I opened our apartment door to him without checking the peephole first. And now... now I can't even save Kurt. "Please?"

"Tell me there's an explanation," he begs, breathing even faster. "Oh, god, please tell me no one's hurt you." I don't answer him, and he makes a little noise that breaks my heart. "Open the door, Blaine. Right now."

"I can't reach."

"What?"

"The locks. I can't reach them."

"Can't... can't you stand up?"

"No," I admit, wincing when I hear the hitch in his breathing.

"I'm going to break the door down," he says at once, leaping to his feet and moving back to take a running start.

"_No_—"

With a bang, the door rattles hard on its hinges, and I sob in terror. "Stop, Kurt, stop, _he's still here_. He'll kill us both if he hears you."

He doesn't make another run at the door, but the damage has been done. Morgan and Lawrence have fallen silent.

"Is it Sebastian?" Kurt's voice is a little quieter, but even more terrified. "Did he hurt you?"

I wait until I hear Morgan speak again before answering. "Sebastian might be dead," I tell him dully. "His friend... the one from last night... hit him. Hit me. With the crowbar. Please... you need to get out of here."

He sucks in a breath, and I hear him press three keys on his cell phone. "Is Sebastian in there with you too?"

"Kurt—"

"_Stop_. I'm not leaving you. Is he there?"

"No. He's in the stairwell. His blood's in the elevator."

There's a brief pause, and then I hear: "We need help. There's been an attack at the Wiltshire Apartments. Please, we need ambulances, and police. Lots of police."

It's quiet as Kurt listens to the 9-1-1 operator ask him questions. So quiet.

Too quiet.

Slowly, I turn my head to look toward the kitchen.

And then my blood runs cold.

"The attacker is still in the building. He's in apartment 303," Kurt is saying. "He's got a... a victim in there with him. Another victim is in the stairwell. They've both been beaten with a crowbar."

Lawrence is standing a few feet away, looming over me, his eyes wide. I know he can hear Kurt out in the hall.

"No," I whisper. "Don't you touch him." I sit up weakly, spreading my good arm out, trying to block the door.

"Lawrence?" Morgan calls out from the kitchen. "What's going on?"

Lawrence stares down at me, his blond head cocked, then takes a slow step toward the door.

"Stay _back_," I hiss at him, my heart pounding fast. "He hasn't done anything. Just... leave him alone..." I'm shaking all over, adrenaline and terror surging through my veins. Slowly, swallowing back my gasps of pain, I stagger to my feet. My injured arm hangs at my side, useless, but I lift my other fist and try to look menacing, even as I lean against the door for support.

"Is he awake?" Morgan calls again. I can hear the sloshing of water in the sink. "Did he make that noise before?"

"I won't let either of you hurt him again." My head is throbbing, and my knees are about to buckle from the pain, but I fight to stay upright. "You'll have... have to kill me to get to him."

We stare at each other, waiting, until Lawrence calls out, "No, it must've been another door. Nothing's changed in here." I can't help the sob that escapes my lips, but I don't move from my spot. "Do you have duct tape?" he asks softly.

"What?"

"Duct tape. Do you have any?"

I shake my head numbly, and he frowns.

"What about rope? String? Anything?"

My mind slogs through an inventory of our apartment. "Floss?"

He gives me the strangest look, then nods. "Where is it?"

"Bathroom." I point in the general direction.

"What are you doing?" Morgan calls out.

"Checking for a pulse, one second," Lawrence calls back. He runs off toward the bathroom, and I slump down against the door, my knees slowly giving out until I'm sitting again.

There's a long pause, and I hear Kurt murmur, "Really? Good. The code for the building is 23069. Please, _please_ tell them to hurry."

It might be a few minutes or maybe a few seconds, but then Lawrence is back, floss in hand. He takes a deep breath, glancing briefly at the bloody crowbar on the floor before entering the kitchen again. He speaks faintly, but Morgan's response is crystal clear:

"Give myself up? Are you insane?"

"This has gone way too far already. If Sebastian survives, you know he'll tell them it was you—"

They start to argue again, but I tune them out as Kurt's fingertips emerge from under the door again. "You there, baby? They're on their way. They're almost here. The 9-1-1 operator said someone else called about the attacks around ten minutes ago. She said police should be here any second."

I stroke his fingertips lightly, trying to calm him down. He's safe, for now. "Thank you."

"Sebastian's friend... where is he now?"

"They're fighting in the kitchen."

"Who's _they_?" When I don't answer, his fingers press against mine insistently. "Wait, Blaine, is there someone else in the apartment? Are there two attackers?"

"No, I don't think so," I reply, leaning my head back against the door. "He has floss."

"He... what?"

There are loud banging noises coming from the kitchen now, and grunts of exertion. Morgan doesn't have his crowbar in there, so maybe Lawrence's brute strength will win out.

I don't let myself think about what will happen if it doesn't.

The pain is starting to fade, which is nice. "Can you sing to me?" I ask. "You have such a beautiful voice."

"Blaine—"

"Please." A dark fog is seeping into the room , licking its way along the walls slowly. "Sing me to sleep."

"You are _not _going to sleep," he says sharply. "You have to stay awake."

The bangs have stopped. Someone is groaning. In a minute or an hour, I see a hulking blond form emerge from the kitchen, and I blow out a long breath of relief. Lawrence walks right up to the door, flicking open the chain and slide-lock. Then he looks down at me. "Can you move over?"

I blink at him hazily.

He leans over and picks me up surprisingly gently, setting me down on the side so that he can open the door. There's a strange moment when he opens the door, Kurt looking very small on the hallway floor with only a cheesecake to use as a weapon. Then Lawrence steps past him, and takes off toward the stairwell.

In an instant, Kurt is by my side, running his hands over me. "Where did he — oh god, your head — how many times did he—"

"Hi," I murmur, petting his arm. "Hi, you're here."

"Tell me where you're hurt."

"So handsome..."

"_Blaine. _Tell me where you're hurt."

"Head... shoulder..."

It feels as though it's raining. Can't be raining; we're inside. And the rain is too hot, anyway.

"Keep your eyes open," Kurt says, his voice sounding thick. "Look at me, baby."

"M'fine," I tell him reassuringly. "Just need to sleep."

"No. _No._" Oh, it's not raining at all. Those are Kurt's tears falling from the sky. "I let you go to sleep last time, and you forgot me. I need you to stay awake for me. Look at me."

I look up. He's so beautiful. "You're like a prince."

"Focus, sweetie. They're almost here." He makes a strange strangled noise, then swears loudly. "Where _are _they?"

"They're coming... be fine... Just so tired."

"Don't you close your eyes. Don't you dare." His breaths are coming faster and faster, even as mine grow slower and slower. "I need you to look at me. _Look at me. _Stay with me, Blaine. Come on, baby, don't you leave me again, I can't _do _this again, I love you but I _can't._"

The fog is curling around him slowly, so I focus on his face. His lovely eyes, and their shade of blue that I can't quite place, but would like to. "I will always come back to you."

"Blaine, _please_—"

The dark clouds pull me under, and I sleep.


	29. Chapter 29

**_A/N:_**_ Many many thanks to my amazing beta, _**_t-vo0810_**_, for her patience and guidance, and to _**_cakecakecake13_**_, who again shared her medical expertise for this chapter!_

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><p>Someone is screaming.<p>

Up and down, up and down, someone wails, not even bothering to stop for a breath.

"Blaine? Can you hear me? Open your eyes, Blaine."

My eyelids flutter open, and a man in a white collared shirt swims across my vision.

"Good, that's good. Do you know where you are?"

The scream seems to grow louder. My head is killing me. "What?"

"Do you—" The man keeps talking, but the shrieking wail drowns him out.

"Screaming," I murmur. "Stop the screaming."

The man turns and yells something, something about a switch, and the noise cuts out all at once. I suck in a sharp breath of relief. The room we're in is shaking, vibrating, humming. But the walls aren't screaming anymore.

"Do you know where you are?"

There's another man crouched on the other side of me. He's dressed in a thick navy coat with a patch on it. He's grasping my elbow. There's a sharp pinch, I flinch, and then my shoulder cries out sharply in pain. Or maybe that's me.

"Blaine?"

My limbs feel so heavy, and I sink through the sheets, through the floor, through the ground, through the earth as the wail begins anew.

* * *

><p>It's hard to stay awake.<p>

It's hard to stay asleep, too, with how often nurses keep waking me to ask me questions. But once that's over, I drift off to sleep again, especially when the morphine kicks in. It's a strange sort of sleep, though. My eyes are closed, my body limp, but bits of conversations around me scuttle their way into my ears and crawl into my brain:

"Shouldn't have let him go. This never would have happened if we'd kept him at home."

"Vitals look good. Let's get a CT scan of his head, check for hemorrhage."

"What were we supposed to do, lock him in his room? He's nineteen, Cecelia. Whether we like it or not, he's an adult."

"I'm so sorry, Blaine. I just wanted to protect you, and look what happened."

I wake up for a while, when the room has grown hushed and still. I look around blearily at my hospital room. There's an IV tube stuck in one of my arms. The other arm is in a sling; I guess I was right about my shoulder being dislocated. I wiggle my fingertips, wiggle my toes. How long have I been asleep?

Mom is slumped awkwardly in a chair beside me, leaning forward against my bed, her head and arms resting on the sheets beside me. Dad is in a recliner on my other side, twisted uncomfortably and frowning in his sleep. I watch them both for what might be hours, but might also be seconds. In either case, I watch them, and they don't move.

* * *

><p>The room is bright when I wake again. Mom and Dad are standing in the doorway, talking with someone who's standing in the hall. I strain my ears to listen, and when I hear a faint voice, my eyes widen and I struggle to sit up.<p>

Dad glances over at me, then does a double-take, hurrying to my side. He whispers my name, his palm hovering above my head as though he's afraid to touch me. Mom runs over too, her eyes bright with tears.

"Blaine?"

I try to speak, but my throat is too dry, and I start to cough. Mom grabs a pitcher of water off my nightstand and, with trembling hands, fills a cup and sticks a straw in it. Gratefully I lean forward, drinking thirstily.

Once the cup is empty, I lie back again, sighing in relief. "Thanks, Mom," I say, and they both breathe in sharply.

"We were afraid you might not..." My dad blinks rapidly. "Well. You're awake. Thank god."

"Can we get you anything?" Mom asks. "Are you in any pain?"

I glimpse some movement near the door, and a tall brown-haired figure darts out of sight. I take a shaky breath.

"Who was that? Who were you talking to, before?"

My parents glance at each other.

Dad shakes his head. "I..."

"Blaine," Mom says softly, reaching over to take my good hand. "You, ah... you have a boyfriend. He cares for you very much. You care for _each other _very much."

"I know this might be overwhelming right now," Dad says, "but once you're feeling a bit better, you can meet him."

My chest feels tight all of a sudden, like my heart is too big for the space. "You could've just said it was Kurt, guys."

"You... _oh_." Mom huffs out a sound of surprise. "Sorry."

"Don't be." I squeeze her hand tightly. "_Don't be_. That... that means a lot."

"Do you want to talk to him?" Dad asks.

"Yes. Please."

He turns and strides over to the door, disappearing down the hall. Mom strokes my head gently, tutting over the state of my hair. "You need a good shampooing," she murmurs.

"What'd the doctors say about my head?"

"Another concussion. You were lucky he only hit you once." She swallows thickly, then turns away.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I never meant for any of this to happen."

"I know you didn't."

I can't give her a proper hug, not with my arm in a sling, so I wrap my good arm around her back, patting her awkwardly so I don't dislodge the IV.

Dad comes back into the room, looking perplexed. "He was just here," he says. "I don't know where he went. Your friends said they saw him heading for the elevators a couple of minutes ago."

I frown at that, then blink. "My friends?"

"Didn't you hear them earlier? They were all singing together, until one of the orderlies told them to stop."

"They've just about taken over the waiting room," Mom says. "There must be a dozen of them out there. Michael, and Wes, and Artie, and that nice lesbian girl who pretended to be Mrs. Morrow's granddaughter—"

My laugh rings out, startling all three of us. Then Mom starts to laugh, too, and Dad, and the three of us are howling with laughter, even though I can't find anything funny about the situation at all.

* * *

><p>I get a steady stream of visitors. Observing the hospital's visitation policy, they come in two by two, like some bizarre version of Noah's Ark. I expect Kurt to be the first one through the door, but instead it's Mike and Finn. Mike is warm and friendly, but Finn hangs back a little, watching me warily.<p>

Finally I speak up. "I'm okay, Finn."

"That's good." His expression doesn't change. "So did you get all your lost memories back?"

"I'm pretty sure that sort of thing only happens in the movies," Mike supplies. "Brains don't have reset buttons."

Finn nods. "So are you... what do you, uh..."

"Tell him I'm still New Blaine. Tell him I'm still the guy he woke up with this morning."

"Um, Blaine..." Mike says hesitantly. "Kurt woke up in the waiting room this morning. We all did. You've been out of it for a couple days now."

I close my eyes briefly. Kurt must be going out of his mind with worry. "Can I see him? Please?"

They glance at each other. "I'll see if I can find him," Finn says. He heads out into the hall.

"How'd you know he came in here spying for Kurt?" Mike asks.

"Because I know Kurt." I steel myself before asking my next question. "Mike, is Sebastian—"

"He'll be okay," he assures me, and I let out a long breath of relief. "He's pretty banged up, and they've still got him in the ICU, but his doctors expect him to make a full recovery."

"Good. That's good."

"The guy who did this to you..."

"Morgan."

"Right. He was arrested that night. His parents posted bail, but he's on house arrest until his trial. They've got him in one of those electronic ankle bracelets, so they'll know if he tries to leave the house."

This all feels so surreal. Like a very vivid dream I'd have after falling asleep during a Law and Order marathon.

"How has Kurt seemed to you?"

"Not good," he says honestly. "He hasn't really talked to anyone. He just sits by himself. Every once in a while he disappears for an hour or so. No one knows where he goes." He sighs. "If you want, I can help Finn look for him."

"I'd appreciate that. Thanks."

He leaves, and I straighten my hospital gown, trying to look more presentable for Kurt. But when someone walks in the door, it's not Kurt at all.

"Rob?"

"Hi, kid." He looks exhausted. He has a couple of days' worth of stubble on his cheeks, and there are dark circles under his gray-blue eyes.

"What are you doing here?"

His jaw tightens, and he sticks his hands in his pockets. "The police called me on Thursday night."

"Police?"

"Yeah, apparently they have to notify you if your apartment is the scene of a crime."

I wince. "Oh."

He nods, pursing his lips. "So, ah, your mom and dad say your prognosis is good."

"Rob—"

"Doesn't seem to be any sign of—"

"Rob, I'm so sorry. Really, I am."

He shakes his head over and over, looking at the ground. "I was an idiot. I thought I was protecting you by giving you a key to that place, and look what happened."

"You _did _protect me," I tell him earnestly. "You gave me and Kurt somewhere we could go and just be ourselves. You gave us a home." He doesn't answer, and I remember with a sinking feeling how the apartment looked the last time I saw it. "By the way, I promise I'll replace your rug."

Rob's head shoots up, his eyes wide with incredulity. "My _rug_?"

"Yeah, I threw up on it that night. After he hit me, I—"

"You actually think I would keep that place?"

"I..." My heart starts to race. "You can't get rid of the apartment. You can't."

"Like hell I can't. You know what it's like to get a police escort into your own home, and see—" He makes a small noise. "Your _blood_ all over the—"

"It wasn't my blood, it was Sebastian's—"

"It doesn't _matter_ whose blood it was. What _matters_ is that it never would have happened if I hadn't given you a key to that place. You'd still be safe at home with your parents."

"Rob, please. _Please _don't sell the apartment."

He shakes his head again, his eyes bloodshot. "It's already done. I've hired a moving company to box up everything. I'll drop off your stuff at your parents' house."

"_Rob_."

But he's already heading out the door, and Wes and Rachel are coming in, wearing tentative smiles on their faces.

* * *

><p>Kurt is avoiding me.<p>

I know he hasn't left the hospital since I arrived; everyone who comes in tells me how he's been pacing the waiting room for days, and how he could really use a shower and some soap. Plus, he comes in when I'm asleep, to leave me little notes. Every time I wake up, I find another one.

_Sorry I missed your window of consciousness. See you soon! xo Kurt_

_Hey Sleeping Beauty, I stopped by again. Hope your head's feeling better. -Kurt_

_Have I told you how very un-stylish that sling is? We've got to bedazzle it or something. K_

They're there literally every time I wake up, and I wonder how he always seems to know when I fall asleep. Then I start to notice how Rachel, in particular, keeps me asking whether I'm tired. At one point I lie, faking a huge yawn and saying, "Actually, yeah. I think I'll take a nap."

She taps out a quick message on her cell phone, and now I know I'm not making it up. "Okay, well... feel better!"

I mumble incoherently, hoping I'm not overselling it. I must not be, though, because it's only a couple of minutes before I catch the sound of someone tiptoeing over to my bedside. I wait until he's leaned over to put a note on my nightstand to open my eyes.

"Hi."

"Oh, god!" Kurt jumps, one hand flying up to his chest. "You startled me!"

"Sorry."

"It's okay. I just thought you were sleeping."

I watch him carefully. His red-rimmed eyes are darting from my flowers in the corner, to my balloons by the door, to the folded blanket at the foot of the bed. Anywhere but at me. "Kurt, why have you been avoiding me?"

"What are you talking about? I'm here, aren't I?"

"Yeah, because Rachel told you I'd be sleeping." I'm relieved when he doesn't try to deny it. "Where have you been? Didn't Finn tell you I wanted to see you?"

He nods. "Sorry, I've been... trying to deal with some stuff."

"I don't know what's going on, but I need you, Kurt. I mean, I was lucky to get out with just a jammed shoulder and a concussion. I could have—"

"I know. I _know _what could have happened. That's the problem." He folds his arms, looking agitated. He still won't meet my eyes. "I read online that every brain injury you get now runs the risk of causing amnesia again."

"Well, I didn't get it this time. And besides, it's not like I make a habit of getting brain injuries—"

"Two in a year. _Two._"

"That's not fair, someone _attacked me_—"

"We live in backwoods Ohio. There'll _always_ be someone who wants to attack you. And what if next time, you end up forgetting everything? What if you're a blank slate, and nothing that draws us together is still there anymore? What then?"

I shake my head helplessly. "So, what, you're breaking up with me?"

"That's not what I'm saying."

"Then what _are _you saying?"

"That I wouldn't have fought for you," he blurts out, then covers his mouth with both hands. "Shit."

"What?"

"I didn't mean to tell you like this, I wanted to wait until you were out and we could sit down and talk without hearing the beeping of your monitors—"

"Kurt. Talk to me."

He lowers his hands slowly, and I can see unshed tears glistening in his eyes. "That night... I was sitting on the floor holding you, and screaming for someone, _anyone _to come help us, and you were unconscious and I just kept thinking _I can't do it again. If he forgets me, I have to let him go this time, because I can't go through all that again_."

"Oh, baby..."

"And we made promises, I know, when we exchanged the rings, about loving each other forever in sickness and in health, and... and I can't promise that anymore. And you deserve to know that."

"You were panicking. You were scared. Of course you doubted whether you could get through it."

"I'm not panicking now." He swallows. "I'm just being honest. I'm not strong like you, Blaine. These past few weeks... it's been amazing getting to fall in love with you again, but it's also been terrifying. If I had to go through it all over again, and you _didn't _love me that time—" He finally meets my eyes, and I can't breathe. "I'd be broken. I'd never recover. And my dad, my family, they need me too much to lose me."

"_I_ need you too much to lose you," I stress, grabbing his hand and holding it to my heart. "Kurt, there's nothing I can say or do to convince you that every version of me will love you. So I don't know what to do, here. Other than ask you to trust me."

He looks at me searchingly, then makes a faint noise as he leans forward, capturing my lips in a desperate kiss. I reach out to grab a handful of his shirt collar and pull him closer, unwilling to let him go.

"I was so scared," he whispers between frantic kisses.

I think back to the moments in Rob's apartment when I thought Kurt had been hurt, and the agony I'd felt. Then I imagine spending a couple of days as he did, not knowing whether I'd forget him.

With difficulty, I pull back from his lips, fixing my eyes on his. "Don't ever say you're not strong again," I murmur. "You're the strongest person I've ever met."

He traces his thumb down my cheek, then over my lips. Then he kisses me again, and I forget the pain in my head, the ache in my shoulder, the thirst in my throat. Because in this moment, he is all I could ever need.

* * *

><p>It's Artie, oddly enough, who comes up with a solution to ease Kurt's anxiety.<p>

The visitors can only come in one at a time now, as Kurt refuses to leave my side. He's curled up beside me as Artie tells us about his community service project. "I've been working with the Shady Pines Nursing Home. My grandma's there, and when I was visiting one time she mentioned how many people there have Alzheimer's. She said they sometimes wake up and don't know where they are, or even who they are. And when the nurses try to tell them, most times they won't believe them. So it occurred to me, whose advice would you trust most if you were the patient in a situation like that?"

Kurt is playing with one of the buttons on my pajamas, only half-listening. "Hmm?"

"Whose advice would you trust?"

"Tim Gunn's. Man has flawless taste."

Artie rolls his eyes, then looks to me. "What about you?"

I shrug. "Maybe a spouse? It depends on how much they remember. They might not trust anyone."

"Exactly," he grins, snapping his fingers. "You'd only trust yourself. So that's my project. I go to the nursing home and, on days when the patients are doing well, I record them talking about their lives. What they did for a living, who their relatives are, what room they live in at Shady Pines... anything that seems important. Then I add pictures to the videos. Recent shots of their family members, photos of their old homes, even pictures of the pills they take every day. The nurses show them the videos during their bad days, and it's had some good results."

Kurt's eyes are wide as they meet my gaze, and we both smile.

* * *

><p>Artie sets up his tripod beside my hospital bed. I scoot over to make room for Kurt to sit beside me. Artie presses record, and Kurt and I just talk and talk. We talk about how we met, how we fell in love. How the first attack came about, and how much we lost. And later, how much we found.<p>

Sometimes, when Kurt steps out of the room to take a shower or grab some food from the cafeteria, I watch the video. Invariably, he catches me when he returns, but he never makes fun of me. He just crawls into bed beside me and we watch together.

"I want a copy," he whispers one day, after watching me tell the camera how I'd realized I was in love with Kurt. "I want to be able to watch it when you're not around."

"Why wouldn't I be around?"

"Rob's sold the apartment. We don't have a home together anymore."

"We'll still see each other," I assure him.

"For coffee dates, maybe. An hour or two a day." He sighs when I don't respond. "Everything is going to change, Blaine."

I draw him close with my good arm and hope he's wrong.


	30. Chapter 30

_**A/N:** I swore I wouldn't let a whole year go by without updating this. Made it by about 15 minutes. I'm truly sorry, to those of you who are still around and have been so kind and patient. I had gotten so many hateful messages demanding updates, that I couldn't write anything for a while, I'd have a panic attack just at the thought of it. Then so much time went by that even when the panic stopped, I couldn't bring myself to update because I thought it would need to be SO long and SO amazing to make up for the wait, but everything was already plotted out and outlined and I couldn't figure out how to make it more exciting. Then I realized there was some character development in future chapters which wouldn't make sense unless you could knew the details of what happened in the attack, which you couldn't in this story because Blaine doesn't remember it. Which brings me to my next point:_

_**If you have not yet done so, please read the story "Red As, Cold As" now.** Before reading this chapter, if possible. It is the story of the attack from Kurt's POV and it will become important._

_Also, for the hell of it, you might want to reread chapter 29 to remember WTF this story is about._

_There are a few chapters left. According to my outline, probably either 2 or 3 more, depending on how verbose I get. I promise that I will write them in a timely manner. The writer's block is gone, partly because in the past year I learned not to base my self-esteem on the anonymous criticisms of strangers. It was tough, but I figured it out. In the long run it probably was a good thing? Made my skin thicker._

_As always, **t-vo0810** was an invaluable sounding board as beta, guiding and encouraging me along the way. She is simply amazing. Any mistakes contained in this story are my own._

_Also, for my fellow tumblr users, sorry about the secret penis. I don't even know._

* * *

><p>My doctors keep me at the hospital for observation one more night, so that they can make sure the swelling has gone down in my head. Then I'm free. Mom and Dad head to the billing department to sign some paperwork, while Kurt carefully wheels me down to the lobby and parks the wheelchair near a couple of guys in Cincinnati Reds hoodies. Then he starts chastising me about the amount of hair gel I used this morning.<p>

"Dime-sized dollop, Blaine. That's all you need."

"That's all _you _need, maybe. You don't have the world's curliest hair. A dime-sized dollop wouldn't make a dent."

"Your hair looks good with a little wave to it. Gives it character. You're not fooling anyone into thinking it's straight with all that shellack, you know."

"It's been a long time since I've been able to fool anyone into thinking part of me is straight, that's true."

"Right. Not since Rachel." He lasts about three seconds before bursting into giggles, and I swat at him playfully with my good arm.

"Trust me, it looks better this way. You have no idea just how curly it is."

"Of course I do. You think you never showed me your curls? I begged you one time when we were spending a weekend at Rob's apartment. You took a shower and towel-dried it, and then it just grew and grew and grew." Kurt's eyes widen at the memory.

I sigh. "Wow. You saw the fro and you didn't run for the hills. You must really love me."

His expression grows soft, and he reaches for my hand. Then he glances over at the guys nearby and drops his hand quickly.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Nothing," he says tightly.

"Kurt?"

"You've already had your head bashed in twice," he murmurs. "Let's not draw attention to ourselves and make it a third."

I look over at the two guys, who are bent over an iPhone and seem oblivious to us. "You do realize they weren't hate crimes, right?"

"What?"

"The attacks. In McKinley's parking lot, and in the apartment. They weren't hate crimes. I mean, yeah, Morgan hated me, but it wasn't because he was a homophobe."

Kurt starts to reply, then frowns. "Oh." Then he's quiet for a long time. "I kind of got used to assuming that's why it happened."

"I know. Me too."

He glances at the guys again. I wait for him to relax, but he doesn't.

* * *

><p>Much to his chagrin, Kurt has to leave for work once I get situated at home. He doesn't go into detail, but it's clear, things at the tire shop aren't going well.<p>

"I could help out," I tell him.

"Absolutely not. You need to rest."

"My dad and I rebuilt a car once, I know my way around an engine. Even with one arm in a sling."

"We'll be okay." He kisses my forehead gently. "I'll see you later?"

"You'd better."

Mom busies herself around my room once he leaves. She fluffs my pillows and refills the water pitcher next to my bed. "Do you need anything, honey?" she asks. "Toast? Maybe some soup?"

"I'm not sick, Mom, I just have a concussion. I'm fine, really. Don't you have a Junior League meeting today?"

"Oh, I won't go to that."

"But you have that charity auction coming up."

"There are more important things than auctions, dear."

"Like watching me watch the wall?" I stop her as she reaches to re-fluff my pillow. "Mom. I'm fine. You heard Dr. Weeks this morning; I don't need monitoring anymore, I just need rest. Go to your meeting. I'll call if I need anything." She hesitates, and I add, "You know Belinda Cartwright is going to completely ruin the auction if you're not there overseeing the planning."

She huffs out a breath. "Belinda Cartwright. That woman doesn't know the first thing about event planning."

"She might order carnations," I say seriously, and Mom is on her feet in an instant.

"You promise you'll call if you need anything? Anything at all?"

"I promise."

The house grows quiet and still once she leaves. I'm not supposed to watch TV, read, or use a computer, so my options are limited. I wander around the house and down the stairs, smiling when I take the non-squeaky route out of habit. It makes me think of that night Kurt, Puck and I broke in to retrieve my cell phone, just a few weeks ago. It was a night of stolen glances and stolen kisses and a stolen phone, heavy in my palm as I turn it over. Kurt's too busy for a phone conversation, and there's no one else I can think to call. Mike and I may be rebuilding our friendship, but he doesn't strike me as the type who'd want to chat on the phone for longer than a minute or two.

Hours pass. Kurt texts me often, asking how I'm feeling. I tell him I'm fine. I _am _fine, as long as I keep the house dim and quiet. Recovering from a concussion seems minor, compared to what I went through last year. I swallow a couple of Tylenol to help with the shoulder pain, and try to nap. But when I close my eyes, I see the swing of a crowbar, and they pop back open.

The house becomes stifling as the afternoon crawls onward. I think of Rob's apartment, with its homey modern furniture and warm ambiance. That's all gone now. I was upset with Rob at first for selling it, but now I can't imagine going back to a room stained with my blood. Not to mention Sebastian's.

Sebastian. No one has updated me on him, not since Mike told me he was in the ICU. I wonder if he's still there, or if he's been discharged like me. My thumb runs over the face of my cell phone, before I turn it on and call the hospital.

"Hi, can you connect me to Sebastian Smythe's room, please?"

The operator taps a few computer keys, then says, "I'm sorry, Mr. Smythe is in the ICU and can't currently accept calls."

"Oh." I frown. It's been days. "Thanks."

The walls creep slowly toward me as the sun begins its descent. Mom calls just before four, and I tell her I'm going to take a nap.

"Daddy needs to work late, but I'll try to be home by seven. Is that okay?"

"Don't rush, Mom, I'll probably sleep till at least eight."

"Eight it is," she says, sounding distracted. "I'll see you then. Enjoy your nap."

"I will," I say, ending the call and pulling up the number of a local taxi service.

* * *

><p>The harsh fluorescent lights in the hospital hurt my head, so I stop at a water fountain to take a couple more pills. Then I take an elevator up to the ICU.<p>

I hate hospitals. I've been in enough that I can say that with some authority. They all smell like antiseptic and antibiotics and pee, and there's no dignity as you roam the halls in a paper-thin gown with your ass on display. This is the ICU, though, so the patients are all in their beds, the steady beeping of monitors and low hum of conversations the only sounds to be heard as I step through the set of double doors. I get a few curious glances from orderlies, but most people ignore me as I wander past each room, trying to peek inside without being intrusive. Room after room, and no Sebastian.

Once I round the corner, there's no need to keep looking. A large blond boy is sitting in one of the chairs outside a room, his head in his hands. I approach slowly, and he looks up just before I reach him. "Hi, Lawrence."

"Hi." He looks exhausted.

"May I?" I ask, gesturing to the chair beside him.

"Sure, yeah." He waits till I'm seated, then clears his throat a little. "So, uh. How are you feeling?"

"Okay. How's Sebastian?"

"Still unconscious. Doctors say we have to wait and see what happens when the swelling goes down. But there's good... brain activity, or something?" He rubs a hand over the back of his head. "I don't know. It doesn't make a lot of sense to me. But his nurse said they're optimistic he'll make a full recovery."

"Good, that's good."

He nods, and we sit in silence for a bit. A nurse goes into Sebastian's room at one point, but she heads out again shortly.

"Are his parents here?" I ask.

"No." There's no mistaking the bitterness in Lawrence's tone. "They're on vacation in Rome."

"And nobody's been able to reach them?"

"Oh, we reached them. But his mother said they're not scheduled to come back until after the new year, and they're not cutting their trip short."

I gape at him. "Their kid's in intensive care."

"Yup."

"And they're staying in Rome."

"It's..." He shrugs. "It's how they are. I've known Sebastian most of my life. His parents act like he's a trophy. Something shiny to take out and wave around when they want to impress someone, and then stick it back on a shelf. Why do you think he ended up in so many boarding schools?"

"Is that what happened with Morgan too?"

"Morgan. No, Morgan's parents aren't like that."

My cell phone buzzes, and when I check it, there's a message from Kurt, asking how I am. I type back a quick text and send it to him.

"Can't use that in here, they'll yell at you," Lawrence says, so I power it down.

"You've known both of them a long time?"

"Yeah, we all grew up together. Sebastian got shipped off to a few boarding schools overseas before his parents decided Dalton was a better option. All three of us transferred in at the same time. I was pumped about their lacrosse team. Morgan just kept talking about how great it would be to see Sebastian again. I figured he'd just missed him a lot or something, I didn't know he..."

"Was gay?"

"Nah, I knew that, he'd told me back when we were in middle school. I just didn't know he had a thing for Sebastian at that point."

"So what happened?"

"Sebastian became Big Man on Campus. He had his pick of pretty much any guy at Dalton — even most of the straight guys wanted him. Every once in a while he'd get really drunk and hook up with Morgan. Just enough to keep stringing Morgan along."

I study his face. "You blame him for this?"

He looks up at me sharply. "For _this_? For Morgan beating him to a pulp? For ruining your life? I'm not insane, Blaine. I don't think there's any excuse for what Morgan did to you guys."

"Except the first time around."

He sighs deeply. "You heard that."

"Yeah. You said Morgan told you it was self-defense."

"There were two of you, and only one of him, and..." He spreads his palms. "He was my friend. I trusted him. And I guess deep down I didn't want to believe the alternative."

I nod. "Thanks for calling 9-1-1 that night, by the way."

"How did you—"

"The police said it was an anonymous call from a pay phone near the stairwell, about ten minutes before Kurt called. Anyone else would have stayed with Sebastian and waited. I figured it had to be you."

Lawrence shrugs. "I didn't know if Morgan would go after me too. And I had to get help."

"I know. Those ten minutes may have saved his life."

He scoffs. "Ten minutes. Morgan had called me about it half an hour earlier. If I'd called the police right away, maybe Sebastian would be awake right now."

"Why didn't you?"

"I didn't want to believe it was true. I hoped he was exaggerating, or making it up. I mean... who wants to believe their best friend is capable of something like that?"

I try to imagine getting a call from Mike, saying he'd attacked someone. The idea is too far-fetched to even fathom. "Did you tell the police it was you who called?"

"No, but they took my fingerprints. They probably figured it out." He pauses. "Do you think I'll get in trouble?"

"For calling 9-1-1?"

"For not telling them it was me."

I look at the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. "No, I don't think you will. Seems like you're punishing yourself enough right now."

Someone is crying in another room. Great big sobs, and I feel uncomfortable overhearing them.

"He's at home now?"

"Who?"

"Morgan."

"Yeah, his parents posted bail while he was still in a holding cell. He'll be there until the trial."

"Is that normal? To be put on house arrest instead of going to jail?"

"There is no normal when you're Henry Adams's kid." At my blank look, he rolls his eyes. "Henry Adams? The stock market guru?"

I shrug.

"His dad's a legend, man. Inherited six million dollars when he turned 21, turned that into six _hundred_ million in ten years just by playing the stock market. Cashed in everything before the big market crash in '08. Wrote a couple books, hosts that show about money management on CNN... you've seriously never heard of him?"

"Sorry."

"He's one of the most powerful men in Ohio."

"Yeah, I'm sure he's hot stuff. Doesn't mean his kid didn't turn out to be a psychopath."

Lawrence pauses. "He, uh... he wants to talk to you, by the way."

A trickle of fear runs down my spine. "No."

"You might want to—"

"I have nothing to say to Morgan. And I certainly don't intend to put myself in the same room with him ever again."

"Not Morgan. Henry, his dad."

"Why, so he can try to buy my silence like he bought his son's freedom? Not a chance."

"It's not like that. Henry's a good guy, he wouldn't—"

"I'm not for sale," I tell him sharply.

An alarm goes off in the room next to Sebastian's, and two doctors in scrubs race down the hall toward it. A nurse follows, wheeling a crash cart, and I figure it's a good time to leave. Lawrence doesn't look up as I go.

I turn my cell phone back on while I'm waiting for a taxi, just in time to get a new text from Kurt. I tell him I'm fine.

I tell myself I'm fine, too.

* * *

><p>I arrive home just before seven. Plenty of time to heat up some macaroni and cheese for dinner. Mom walks in when I've just started trying to wash the dishes with my one good arm.<p>

"I can get those, sweetheart. How did you sleep?"

"Fine. How's the auction planning going?"

"Fantastic. One of the ladies on the committee is an old friend of Ted Strickland's, and said we could probably get him to be a celebrity auctioneer." She chats amiably while scrubbing each pan, and I grab a dish towel to dry them off. It reminds me of when I was little. I used to keep a footstool in the kitchen so that I could help Mom wash the dishes after dinner each night. She would ask me about my day, and I'd skip all the ugly parts—

"Blaine?" She's peering at me, looking concerned. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, fine."

"I was saying, Kurt will probably come over tonight. Daddy and I can stay upstairs if you two would like to watch a movie down here."

"Kurt? He didn't mention wanting to come over."

"Yes, well, it's the, ah..." She looks down. "It's been a year, today."

"A year?"

"Since the attack."

My stomach turns. No wonder Kurt's been texting me all day. "I didn't realize."

"Well. Things have been pretty hectic lately. Speaking of which... Christmas is three days away."

"Oh. Right." I haven't bought a single gift for anyone. Truth be told, the idea of opening a stack of presents makes me feel ill, knowing how much the Hummels are struggling financially.

"I thought maybe we could postpone it," she says, scrubbing the strainer a little harder. "Until after the new year."

"Yeah," I say at once. "Yeah, let's postpone it."

"Burt Hummel called the other day, he said they're postponing theirs too," she continues, and I wince a little. His family probably won't be exchanging gifts at all. "So maybe we could all celebrate together?"

I start to answer, then pause in confusion. When exactly did my parents become chummy with the Hummels again? "Mom... I don't think that's a good idea. They can't really afford it right now."

"I'm not talking about presents, Blaine. I'm talking about our two families coming together." She sets the strainer down in the sink, but doesn't look at me. "We've been through hell over the past year. All of us. And your father and I... Yes, we were trying to keep you safe, but we ended up making everything worse by keeping you and Kurt apart. We'd like to try to make up for that. We've spoken with Burt a few times this week, and he's been... very gracious about the whole thing. Probably more gracious than I'd be in his shoes."

I can't help reaching out for her. My hug seems to surprise her, but she hugs me back at once.

"Thank you, Mom."

She hums a little. "He's staying around for good, isn't he?"

"If I'm lucky, yeah."

"I'd like to think you're both lucky, dear."

My mom may be a few inches shorter than me, but for some reason when I hug her, I feel like that little boy on a footstool again. For a moment, I wonder if that's how she still sees me.

The doorbell rings, startling us both.

"Go let him in," she says, pulling away and wiping her eyes. "I'll finish up here."

Sure enough, when I open the front door, Kurt's standing on the front porch. He's holding a takeout bag from that Thai restaurant we went to the other day, and another bag filled with DVDs. I kiss him thoroughly, right there in the doorway, until the tension starts to ease from his shoulders.

"Hi," he murmurs.

"Hi."

"Sorry I didn't call ahead and ask. Is it okay for me to come over?"

"Always."

We don't end up watching any of the movies. Instead, we curl up on the couch together, eating dinner and holding each other close.

"You look exhausted," I tell him softly.

"There's only so much those facial creams can do," he sighs. "I _am _exhausted. Dad and Finn and I are working as much as we can to keep up with the added workload — Dad had to let a couple of the other guys go because he couldn't cover their salaries — and Carole's taken on a second job, but the bills are still piling up. Yesterday we got a notice threatening to turn off our heat. Merry Christmas, right? Dad applied for a second mortgage, hopefully that will help keep the creditors at bay."

"I didn't realize the situation had gotten so bad."

"I didn't want to worry you. I only found out the full extent of it a couple of days ago."

I think guiltily of my parents' wealth, and my own sizable trust fund. Kurt catches my expression and shakes his head adamantly. "Don't you even think about offering us money."

"But I'm the reason you—"

"You are _not_. Don't ever think that way. And you need that money, for college."

"What about you?"

"College isn't in the cards right now," he says flatly. "Maybe in another year or two I'll look into scholarship options at Ohio State."

"Ohio State? What happened to New York?"

"Those were pipe dreams, Blaine. Reality got in the way."

"We could still go to New York. I could pay for an apartment, we could find jobs there—"

"I'm not going to abandon my family during all this," he says firmly. "If I left home, that's one more income they'd lose. They'd never have a chance at getting back in the black."

My mind goes back to my conversation with Lawrence, about Henry Adams and all his millions. And all his power. "Kurt... Morgan's father wants to talk to me."

"Yeah, he's called our house too."

"He has?"

"Probably wants to bribe us into not testifying against his son. As if he could convince us that Morgan belongs anywhere other than behind bars for what he did to us. I didn't call him back. You?"

"Yeah. I mean no, I haven't talked to him either."

"Who cares about that guy and all his money," he says, pulling me in closer. "As long as I've got you, I'm the richest man on earth."

I kiss his jaw and hold him tight, trying not to think about how far a man like Henry Adams might go to keep us quiet.


	31. Chapter 31

_A/N: A million trillion bajillion thanks to _**_bleviee_ **_for saving the day and providing a super last-minute beta. Any and all mistakes are mine. I am planning to have two more chapters of this story._

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><p>The next day Mom has another lengthy planning meeting for the charity auction. I wander around the house aimlessly for a few hours, texting with Kurt between his repairs at the shop. Mike calls and we chat for a while, catching up on the past few days. I admit to him that I visited Sebastian in the hospital, and he doesn't judge me, which I appreciate. After we hang up, I try without success to get some sleep. Finally, boredom takes over and I dial the number for the cab company again.<p>

The hospital is all decked out for Christmas, with festive ribbon wreaths on the doors and a big artificial tree in the lobby. I stop to admire the colored glass baubles, taking a few photos with my cell phone before taking the elevator to the fourth floor. There's another tree up here, this one decorated with pretty icicle ornaments. I snap a couple more photos before I see a large blond boy approaching me.

"Can't use your cell on this floor," Lawrence reminds me, and I turn my phone off. "Didn't think I'd see you back here again so soon."

"Nothing to do at home. Are you leaving?"

"Just for a little while, I've got a family thing my mom wouldn't let me miss. I'll come back later. But, uh, before I go..." He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small envelope. "The EMTs put Sebastian's clothes and personal effects in a stack in his room. I pulled this out, figured I should give it back to you."

I open the envelope, tilting it and sliding my promise ring and chain into my palm. Just holding the ring again makes me feel steadier. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," he says, then heads for the elevators.

I walk down to Sebastian's room, and peer in to find he's fast asleep. I sit outside the room for a couple of hours, fiddling with broken link on the chain necklace and listening to the rhythmic beeps of Sebastian's heart monitor. Eventually I'm able to repair the chain and slip it over my head again, the ring resting securely against my heart.

I head down to the cafeteria around two o'clock to buy a cup of strong coffee. The nightmares are still keeping me from sleeping, and caffeine helps with the fatigue. I buy a sandwich too, eating it slowly and watching as a group of high schoolers sings Christmas carols to the room.

High school feels like another lifetime ago. I'm only a year older than these kids, and I feel like an adult compared to them. After a while, I give up on the sandwich and head back to the ICU.

There's an older man sitting in the chair outside of Sebastian's room. He looks exhausted, and I'm pretty sure he's been crying. A knot of tension starts to relax in my back — I'd been hoping Sebastian's parents would change their minds and come back from Rome early after all.

"Hi," I say softly, not wanting to startle him. "I'm Blaine."

He looks up at me, takes in my sling and bruised face, and his expression crumples. "Oh god. Look at you."

"You're his dad?"

The man nods, taking out a handkerchief and pressing it against his eyes.

I wait until he's composed himself before I turn and look into Sebastian's room. "Has he woken up at all?"

"Twice. Just for a few minutes the first time, a little longer the second. But he knew where he was, who he was. All good signs. Not like last..." He trails off, looking mortified at himself.

"It's okay. I don't even remember waking up from my coma."

"From what I hear, there's a lot you don't remember."

I shrug, then gesture to the chair beside him. He nods quickly, and I sit down, careful not to jostle my sling. "Lost about sixteen months' worth of memories, and then spent several more months after that in a coma. I'm glad Sebastian won't have to go through all that."

He shakes his head, folding and refolding the handkerchief with trembling hands. "Blaine, I hope you know how sorry I am about all this."

"You? Why? It's not your fault."

"My son's behavior—"

"Your son isn't a bad guy," I tell him firmly, and he swallows a muffled sob. "I mean, he has some impulse control problems, don't get me wrong. But maybe now that you're back from Rome, he can really get some—"

"Rome? I wasn't in Rome." He blinks at me.

"But Lawrence said you were."

"No, that's..." His face falls. "You think I'm Sebastian's dad."

I can feel my heartbeat quicken. "You're not?"

"No," he says quietly. "No, my name's Henry Adams."

"You're Morgan's father." My breaths are coming faster now. "Your son did this to us."

"He did."

"And you let me talk about _impulse control problems_?"

My voice echoes loudly down the hallway, making him look around uncomfortably. "I'm sorry. I did try reaching out to you. And to your boyfriend."

"You stay away from him," I say, standing up too fast, making my head hurt. "Stay away from both of us."

He raises both hands placatingly. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"You can't buy our silence. The evidence is all there, and we're not going to lie on the stand about it. Your son almost killed me — _twice —_"

"I don't expect either of you to lie about it in court. That's not what this is about."

"What, then? What do you want?"

He pauses. "Can we go somewhere else to talk about this?"

"No," I say, moving to sit down in a chair across the hall from him. "I've been alone in a room with your son, and we can both see how that worked out for me."

"I..." He looks around again, then leans forward, still speaking softly. "I have a lawyer on retainer, and he called me after looking at the police report. He told me he could get Morgan off on all charges."

"Bullshit," I spit out.

"He's a good lawyer. A very good lawyer, but... not a very good man, as it turns out." He shakes his head. "He started talking about Lima, and how the average citizen there is pretty conservative, and how they probably would think someone who beat up a couple of gay kids was a hero."

I swallow hard, trying to keep the rising nausea at bay. "What's your point?"

"My point is that I fired him." His eyes look at me pleadingly. "I fired him, but he's right."

"That your kid's a hero?"

"That you won't get restitution for what happened to you. Not in a court in this neck of the woods. One juror might be swayed, but put twelve conservative folks from Lima together, and the pack mentality will come out."

"So Morgan's going to walk, is what you're saying."

"Morgan's going to plead guilty." He waits a moment while I struggle to get my breathing under control. "We all talked about it as a family. He understands that what he did was wrong, and he's going to take responsibility for it."

It's more than I could have hoped for — our attacker behind bars, without Kurt or I ever having to take the witness stand. "So what do you want from me, then?"

"When I was talking with my lawyer — back when he _was _my lawyer — he said something about a civil trial. About how if you and Kurt were to sue my family, you'd be laughed out of the courtroom. And I think he's right about that too."

"I don't—"

"You know he came out to us when he was already at Dalton," he says suddenly. "Morgan, I mean. His sophomore year. He'd already known he was gay for a while, I guess, but he'd never said anything, and my wife and I had never suspected. He was... he was such a _boy_, you know? A star athlete in lacrosse, loved watching Buckeyes games with me... it just never occurred to us. So when he told us, we were stunned. We didn't know what to say. I'm not homophobic, I'm not, I just didn't know how to respond. Finally my wife asked him if he was dating anyone at Dalton. He told us he was seeing Sebastian. And I said, 'Oh, well, as long as it's Sebastian.'" He stops, shaking his head. "I meant that I was glad it was someone we knew, someone we could trust not to hurt him. I didn't mean..."

"What?"

"That he could only date a boy if it was Sebastian. Which is how he took it. He said he thought Sebastian was the only person that we would approve of."

I remember, suddenly, Morgan's shout to Lawrence in Rob's apartment — _Sebastian was my only option. _"I still don't see what that has to do with me."

"My son is responsible for what he did to you, and he will accept that responsibility. But I'm not without fault in this, Blaine." He clear his throat. "I'm prepared to offer you a sizable sum of money, in lieu of a civil trial, if you agree in writing that you won't sue my family or speak about this to anyone in the media."

I let out a slow breath. "The media. So that's what this is really about."

"You'd agree to keep this quiet—"

"I really believed you for a minute there. That whole thing about feeling responsible—"

"I _do _feel responsible—"

"As long as it stays behind closed doors," I finish for him. "As long as no one else finds out."

He clears his throat. "I won't deny that the timing is particularly bad. I'm in the midst of negotiating a new contract at CNN, and the bad publicity could really do a number on my career." He opens his palms. "I have to think about my family."

"You're a billionaire."

"Not quite."

"Close enough. Your deal at CNN wouldn't make a dent in your fortune."

"Man is more than his fortune, Blaine. I have my own reputation to worry about."

"Did Morgan even _want_ to plead guilty?" I demand. "Or did you manipulate him into it?"

"Morgan understands the impact of his actions. On you, and on his family." He watches me closely. "I'd cover all of your medical bills, therapy, everything. Plus an additional cash settlement for your trouble."

"You've got to be kidding."

"I'm very serious."

"My _trouble_?"

"Perhaps that wasn't the best—"

"So tell me, then, how do you come up with a number? What's the going rate these days? Is it a certain amount for every week I was in a coma, or is there a flat rate?"

He rubs his forehead slowly, not saying anything for a long time. Finally he says quietly, "The standard award is $1,000 per day for coma victims."

"There's a _standard award_?" I ask, flabbergasted.

"That works out to roughly $120,000 for coma restitution—"

"You think you can put a dollar value on what I went through? On what my family went through?" I'm starting to yell, now. "How much, then? All together?"

He shifts, looking uncomfortable. "I'm prepared to offer you half a million dollars."

"Shove it up your ass," I spit out.

"Blaine, be reasonable, that's—"

"What's the breakdown on that? How much for every month he wiped from my memory?"

"You don't—"

"Do you have any idea how insulting this is?"

He rubs his palms on his knees. "Look, I'll... I'll go to $700,000."

"I'll tell you what you can do with your—"

"_Blaine!_"

The sudden outburst makes us both turn in surprise to see Kurt sprinting down the hallway toward us. I've barely stood up from my chair when he reaches me, throwing his arms around me and clutching me tightly. "Kurt? What's wrong? Are you all right?"

"I couldn't reach you," he gasps, pulling me closer. "Your cell was turned off, and you weren't at home, and your mom and dad didn't know where you were, and your car was still in your driveway and I thought he must have found a way to come after you, to finish what he started—"

"Oh sweetheart." I rub his back with one arm, ignoring how the tight embrace makes my shoulder ache. "I'm so sorry I made you worry. I should have told you I had to turn off my cell. I wasn't thinking." He's still trembling, and I press a kiss to his temple. "How did you even know to look here?"

"Mike," he murmurs. "Mike had a hunch."

We stand holding each other, rocking back and forth until he grows calmer. Then he pulls away suddenly. "Oh god, I've got to call my dad. He was so worried too, he's been calling all the local police departments to see if they knew anything. He turned away two customers because he wouldn't get off the phone to talk to them."

Guilt wraps around my spine, creeping and hot. Burt can't afford to be turning away business, and it's all because of me and my thoughtlessness. "Kurt, I'm so sorry—"

"It's okay. You're okay, it's okay." He gives me another fierce hug. "I'll be right back, I can't call him on this floor. You'll be here?"

"I'll be here."

I watch as he hurries back down the hall. It's only when he disappears through the double doors that I remember that Morgan's dad is here, too. I turn to look at him, and find that he was watching Kurt too. He has the strangest look on his face. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was shame.

"A million apiece," he says. "All of the bills both of your families incurred, plus a million for each of you." He must see something shift in my expression, because he adds, "A million for each family, too."

I drop back into the chair, my mind racing. A million dollars. A million for Kurt, a million for his parents. All of the Hummels' financial problems would be solved. Burt could afford to hire more employees again and cut back on his own hours. Carole could quit her second job. They could move back into a nicer neighborhood. Finn could get his college fund back, and Kurt...

I take a shaky breath. This money could change everything for Kurt. He could go to college, pursue his dreams. Leave Ohio, if that's what he wants, and know that his family would be fine in his absence.

"I'll talk to him," I say finally. Mr. Adams nods, and I set off down the hallway after Kurt.

* * *

><p>"So let me get this straight," Burt says slowly. "This guy's son beat the crap out of you two, and he wants to pay us off to keep it quiet?"<p>

We're all sitting in the Hummels' living room, my family and Kurt's, and there's no small amount of tension in the room.

My dad sighs. "I'm not surprised, to be honest. When I heard whose son it was, I wondered if he'd try this."

"We don't have to take it, do we?" Mom asks. "Can't we sue them anyway?"

Burt looks over at Carole, then clears his throat. "I, ah. I'm not in the financial position to pay for a lawyer right now, Cecelia."

"Money's not a problem, we can pay for the lawyer," Dad says. "But he may be right in saying that we wouldn't get a fair trial for the boys here."

"What would the point of a trial be, anyway?" Finn speaks up, and we look at him quizzically. "I mean, Blaine said Mr. Adams offered him some money already. So is the trial to get more money out of him? Or to make everything public?"

I look over at Kurt, who's sitting on the floor, staring at his lap. He hasn't said a word.

"Because the thing is," Finn continues, "the trial wouldn't be about a homophobic attack. It would be about a bunch of gay guys in a love triangle. And that's how it would look in the news. They'd spin it so that everyone involved looked like the bad guy. You know?"

There's a long silence.

"I guess we should know how much he's offering," Dad says.

"He says he'll pay off all of our medical and psychiatric bills. Plus a million dollars each to me, Kurt, and our families."

Carole lets out a squeak and clutches Burt's arm as Finn swears under his breath. My parents are more subdued in their reactions; they just raise their eyebrows slightly. But it's Kurt who I watch closely, anxious to see his reaction.

"Do you even want that guy's money, though?" Finn asks me. "You were the one who lost the most from all this, Blaine. What do you want to do?"

Kurt finally looks up at me, his eyes wide and pained, and he doesn't have to say a word.

"I want to take the deal," I say, and his shoulders slump with relief.


	32. Chapter 32

**_A/N:_**_ A million thanks to _**_itsjustaplaceholderfornow_**_ for the fast, thoughtful and very helpful beta! My apologies for the lapse between chapters. If I explained what the past six months have been like, you'd understand. I'm hoping to have the last chapter up this month, so I can really end "Roses" in December._

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><p>Dr. Mathison must have hired a decorator to design her office. Every little detail is just right — the soft velvet of the couch, the soothing art on the walls, even the dim twinkle of the chandelier.<p>

"Blaine?"

Everything is perfectly selected to calm anxious nerves. It's a den of relaxation, a luxurious escape from the pressures of the world. No wonder Dad chose this place; they're probably billing Henry Adams a small fortune.

"Blaine, did you hear my question?"

I blink and look back at her. "Sorry, what?"

Dr. Mathison peers at me from behind her thick-rimmed glasses, purses her lips tightly, and scribbles something illegible on her notepad. "I asked you how you're doing today."

"I'm fine."

She's in her early fifties, but I only know that from the date on the Harvard diploma hanging on the wall. She looks far younger, sleek and stylish with her blonde bob and Manolo pumps. "How have things been going since we last met?"

"They're going okay. My parents are fine. Back to normal. Dad's back to his practice, Mom's helping organize a gala of some sort. It's really the Hummels whose lives changed when Mr. Adams's money came through. Now that the creditors are being paid off, Burt's been able to hire back all the guys he let go. Carole quit her second job. Finn has even started talking about college again."

"Mm-hmm."

"Kurt still isn't acting like himself, though."

"How so?"

I frown a little, remembering our phone conversation just before this appointment. He'd sounded exhausted. "He's afraid all the time. Keeps talking about how small town Ohio isn't safe for us because of all the homophobes here. I've tried reminding him that Morgan wasn't homophobic, but that doesn't seem to help. If anything he gets _more _upset, talking about how we can't even trust fellow gay guys to have our backs." I rub my palms against my knees. "He stays at home all day, every day. And he gets really scared when I have to leave the house."

She writes on her notepad again. "Blaine, have you ever noticed that when I ask you how things are going, you talk about your parents, and Kurt, and Kurt's family, but you never talk about yourself?"

I shrug. "I'm fine."

"You've been saying that a lot lately."

"What?"

"That you're fine."

"I _am_ fine." I flash her my best Blaine Anderson smile. "That's why I say it."

She purses her lips, scribbles again.

I swallow back a sigh. "You don't believe me."

"It's hard to believe."

"Why's that?"

"You were violently attacked. Twice."

"Yes."

"Did you ever talk to a counselor about it?"

"There was no need," I assure her. "I'm fine."

"Fine."

"_Yes_."

"Tell me when you weren't fine, Blaine." Dr. Mathison leans forward, raises a perfectly manicured finger to adjust her glasses. "Tell me one time in your life that you haven't been fine."

I can't help rolling my eyes a little. "Plenty of times."

"Name one."

"Oh, I don't know, when I was in a _coma_?"

"You weren't conscious when you were in a coma. I'm asking you for a time when you dropped the perfect little prep school boy act—"

"_Hey_—"

"And were genuinely upset. And acted on it."

"I... You're barking up the wrong tree here, Dr. Mathison. I've been upset. I've shown it."

"When?"

It takes a moment for me to think. "Back in December," I say finally, triumphant. "When I realized my parents had lied to me."

"Hm. Tell me about that."

"I've already told you, when I woke up from the coma they wouldn't let Kurt see me. And they wouldn't let any of my friends who'd known him see me either. They erased any trace of him from my life, so I'd never know he existed."

"And how did it make you feel, when you found out?"

"Hurt. Betrayed. Furious. " I raise my eyebrows. "Sound like a perfect little prep school boy to you?"

"What did you do?"

"Went to my house. Confronted my parents. I _yelled _at them, for the first time in my life."

Rather than looking impressed, Dr. Mathison just nods smugly. "You yelled at them."

"Yes, I did."

"For the first time in your life."

"_Yes_, I just—"

"How old are you, Blaine?"

"Nineteen," I reply, resisting the urge to point out that my date of birth is right there in the very thick file on her lap.

"So it took you nineteen years to yell at your parents?"

"Just because I was raised with manners," I say tightly, "doesn't mean I'm not a genuine person."

She leans back, scribbles again. "How do people with manners behave?"

"In a civilized fashion. They talk things out rationally."

"Do they beat people up?"

I sigh. "No, obviously they don't do that."

"Do they take a crowbar and break your boyfriend's collarbone?"

"Dr. Mathison, I don't know where you're going with this. You think I'm going to snap like Morgan Adams? Attack people?"

"No, I don't." She gives me a vague smile. "You have too much concern for others to hurt anyone like that."

"So what, then?"

"You remember the joint sessions we had with Kurt a few weeks ago?" She points at her notes, as though I can read them. "You said you were concerned about his behavior. And when I asked what Kurt thought about _your _behavior, he said that you seemed like you were back to normal already."

"Which is true. He was right."

"Blaine. Someone attacked you twice. Tried to _kill _you."

"Would you rather I react like Kurt? He can barely leave the house!"

"He's processing. And frankly, I'm worried that you're just shoving your feelings down, repressing them."

"I'm not shoving anything down. I'm _resilient_."

"People are resilient when they learn how to deal with something," she says intently. "You haven't dealt with anything. You've pasted on that big smile and charmed everyone into believing that you're fine."

I stare at her, and she stares at me. Neither of us says a word. Finally she sighs, glancing at the clock. "That's all for today."

"Great."

I'm up and out the door before she's even risen to her feet. I don't bother making my next appointment at the front desk; I'm through dealing with this madwoman. Like I've been telling people, I don't need to talk to a psychologist. I'm _fine_.

I do stop and say goodbye to her receptionist, though, to be polite.

* * *

><p>I drive to Kurt's new house after stopping for gas. As I pull into the driveway and park, I can see him peeking out from behind the heavy drapes in the front room. I wave to him from the car, smiling brightly. The drape falls back into place, and my smile fades.<p>

The Hummels' new neighborhood is really nice, with comfortable homes and lovely landscaped lawns. A few little kids are playing tag in a neighbor's yard, their squeals of laughter filling the air as I head up the front walk. When I reach the front door, though, Kurt opens it and pulls me inside quickly, as though there's gunfire outside. He clutches me tightly once I'm safe in the foyer. "You're late. I was so worried."

"I'm fine, sweetheart," I tell him, leaning in for a kiss. "Just had to stop and fill the tank."

"You didn't go to the BP, did you? I swear those two guys were talking about me the one time I stopped there—"

"No, I remembered. I went to Jerry's. We like Jerry, right?"

He nods reluctantly.

Burt is home, looking happy and well-rested for the first time in ages. He waves at me from the living room, before turning back to hang more picture frames. I watch him for a moment as Kurt tugs my peacoat off and hangs it in the coat closet. Burt is holding a framed photo, gazing at it fondly, and when he reaches up to hang it on a nail, I'm surprised to see it's a picture of Kurt and me at our prom.

"Want to go upstairs?" Kurt asks me. I nod, smiling, and we head up to his room together.

"Have you been outside today?"

"No."

"How come? It's nice out."

He hums noncommittally. We lie down on his bed together, holding each other, and I fight back the urge to tell him to stop hiding away. Henry Adams's money may have saved the Hummels from financial ruin, but it's also taken away any need for Kurt to leave the house.

"Did you get my email about NYADA?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"What'd you think?"

"I don't know. Acting might not be where I want to end up anymore."

"There's the other email I sent you, too, about design schools. Parsons, maybe?"

He sighs. "Honestly, I haven't looked at them too closely."

"Why not?"

"Because it's depressing. We missed all the deadlines to apply to any of those schools at this point. Even if we apply next fall, it means we won't get to New York for another _year _after that."

I hadn't thought of it that way. "But we'll get there. Before you know it, we'll be there."

We watch _Across the Universe_ together, and sing along, and it feels almost normal.

* * *

><p>I leave after Kurt falls asleep, even though it's only six-thirty. Visiting hours at the hospital are still open, so I head over, wondering if Sebastian will agree to see me today.<p>

"Hi, Gloria, you're looking lovely today," I say to one of the elderly receptionists as I sign in.

"Oh, you're gonna make me blush," she chortles. "You sure you don't like women? They're at their best once they pass menopause, you know."

I wink at her. "I'll keep you posted."

I've stopped by nearly every day since my doctor let me drive again. Sebastian hasn't agreed to see me, so each day I've sat outside his room, talking with Lawrence or occasionally the Smythes, who are finally back from Rome. When I arrive tonight, no one is in the hall. Now that Sebastian has been moved out of the ICU, I can use my cell again, so I take a seat and pull it out to play a game.

"Are you seriously here again? I told you to stop coming!" he bellows from inside his room.

I roll my eyes. "It's a free country!" I holler back.

"Get a fucking life, Anderson. Move on."

It's the most he's said to me since the attack, so I pause, considering. Then I put away my phone and rise, walking over to stand in the doorway. "How are you feeling?"

He looks better than he did yesterday. The swelling in his face has gone down a bit, and the bandage on his head is finally gone. "Like I've got a stalker. Don't you have anything better to do?"

I shrug, daring a step into the room. When he doesn't balk, I walk in further. "I've been where you are. Thought you might want someone around who understands."

"I had a cracked skull and a broken arm. I'm not sure that's in the same ballpark as lying half-dead in a coma for months." He's trying to sound dismissive, but there's something tight in his face. I step closer.

"We were both victims of—"

"Don't," he says, as I reach his side. "Don't do that."

"Don't do what?"

"Don't try and act like we're the same."

"I don't understand."

"You're after an apology, right? That's why you keep showing up here?"

I shake my head in confusion. "An apology?"

"You want to hear me say it? Fine, it was my fault. It was all my fault."

"What was your fault?"

Sebastian glares at me fiercely. "You _know_ what. I led Morgan on. I toyed with him because he was an easy lay. I caused this. All of it." His jaw tightens. "Everything. Him nearly killing you and Kurt. Him attacking you and me last month. It's all my fault, all right?"

"It's not—"

"It _is_." He's breathing unevenly now, his eyes growing glassy with tears. "I didn't see it. I didn't see... _him_, I didn't... If I had, I could've... but I didn't know that he would ever, I didn't know he _could_—"

"You couldn't have."

"He was my friend," he says brokenly, turning away from me. I reach for his hand, and he squeezes back tightly. "I didn't know. I swear I didn't know."

"It's fine. Everything's fine, it's okay."

Neither of us says anything else, and when I finally leave, we both know I won't be back.

* * *

><p>It's nearly February, and our families have only just found the time to celebrate Christmas.<p>

We'd planned on doing it right after the new year, but then Mr. Adams had thrown a wrench in everything with his hush money. Things moved quickly once we agreed to settle. The Hummels found the perfect house and paid for it in cash once the settlement money was deposited. I spent a week helping them pack their belongings into cardboard boxes, and even longer helping them unpack. Now that they're settled into their new home, it's finally time for our joint family Christmas.

There are so many presents. _Too _many presents, like Burt and Carole are trying to make up for something that was never their fault in the first place. Finn crows excitedly when he opens up an envelope to find season tickets to the Buckeyes. Carole receives a lovely diamond pendant and gets choked up when Burt helps her fasten it around her neck.

Kurt leans against me and watches everyone open their gifts.

"Aren't you going to open yours?" I ask him. I bought him a pair of boots I know he's been coveting, and I know Carole got him a beautiful array of vintage ties and scarves.

"Maybe later," he says.

Mom opens a string of pearls, and thanks me warmly. "Can you help me put them on, dear?"

I stand up and follow her into the hall, where she stops in front of a large mirror. She holds up her hair carefully, and I fasten the necklace for her. We both pause to admire her reflection.

"He's still struggling, isn't he," she says, nodding toward Kurt. He's watching his dad open gifts, smiling faintly when Burt whoops with excitement. "I'd hoped time might help with that."

"It's hard. He's... it's hard. We'll get through it."

She looks back at me, studying my face. "You will."

"We have each other."

"You do." I can't understand the expression on her face at all. It's not quite sadness, not quite pride. Maybe somewhere in between. "You've grown up a lot, these past few months."

"Had to catch up to my age, I guess."

She smooths back my hair and kisses my forehead, harder than I expect. "You know I love you, yes?"

"Of course, Mom."

"And I want what's best for you?"

"I know that."

When she pulls back, I'm surprised to see that she's crying. "Okay."

"Mom?"

"It's fine, dear. I'm fine."

Dad calls out to us. We head back into the living room together, grinning as Dad demands to know which one of us dared to buy him an electric meat carver. "It's a crime against nature!" he protests as we laugh. "It takes away all the artistry!"

"Then you can return it," Mom says, leaning down to kiss his cheek before perching on the arm of his chair.

* * *

><p>The hubbub has died down at last, and Finn has lit a fire in the fireplace. It casts a warm glow over us as we relax together, sipping mugs of hot chocolate. Kurt still hasn't opened most of his gifts. He's content to snuggle against me, watching the fire.<p>

"Burt," Mom says.

"Yeah?" He looks over at her. "Are you... now?"

"Now's as good as... I mean..." She trails off as Dad rubs her back, and I frown.

"Mom?"

"There's another gift," Burt says, a little gruffly. "We, ah... there's one more."

Carole reaches down to squeeze his hand, and I cock my head.

"A gift for who? What's going on?"

"For you," Dad says. "For you and Kurt, I mean. From all of us."

Mom pulls an envelope out of her purse. She looks down at it for a moment, before leaning over to hand it to me. It's a plain white envelope, no hint to its contents. I look down at Kurt. "You want to open it?"

He shakes his head, so I tear open the flap and reach in. There are two tickets inside, and when I pull them out, my heart gives a little leap. "Plane tickets to New York City? Really?"

"Really," Mom says. I can't figure out why she and Dad look so somber.

"For when?" Kurt asks.

I check the date on the tickets. "Oh wow, a week from tomorrow. And we come back..." I frown, looking at the tickets, then back in the envelope. "I don't understand. These are one-way."

Burt nods, swallowing hard. Kurt straightens up in a flash. "Dad? Really?"

"It's... I mean, that psychologist of yours seemed to think it could—"

"Are you serious?" Kurt's off the floor, half in his dad's lap before I can even react. "Please tell me this is real."

"It's real, bud. We talked to Blaine's cousin Rob, and he said you can stay with him for a while, until you find a place of your own. The money from the settlement should be more than enough to take care of your rent and living expenses, not to mention college tuition when you're ready to head back to school—"

Kurt's laugh rings out, startling and too loud. "We're going to New York." He hugs his dad, earning a surprised _oof _from Burt, then looks back at me, his face radiant. "_Blaine_. Blaine, we're getting out of here. We're going to _New York_."

"I heard." I smile at him, confused at the gnawing feeling in my gut. "It's what you wanted."

"This is amazing, this is so... I just... _New York_!"

Carole hugs him, too, and Finn starts talking about coming to visit us and seeing a Broadway show, and Dad is giving Kurt tips on where to find the best bagels in the city, and Mom is hugging Burt for some reason, and things are moving so fast, everything is going way too fast...

But I'm fine. Everything is fine.


End file.
